


Nobody Tells You How

by Thirdeyeblinkings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Return To Me (2000)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bisexual Draco Malfoy, Bisexual Harry Potter, Canonical Character Death, Death of a Spouse, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Heart Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Pining, Slow Burn, Thestrals, lcdrarry2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-02-27 13:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 34,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirdeyeblinkings/pseuds/Thirdeyeblinkings
Summary: Draco never expected to find love once, let alone twice. But how does love work when your heart's still broken?*OR*Harry gets a heart transplant and develops feelings for Draco Malfoy, but those two things are not at all related. Until they are.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2019 "Lights, Camera, Drarry!" Fest.
> 
> Based on one of my favourite rom-coms from the 2000's, Return to Me. (Scream at me in the comments if you've actually seen it. I mean, scream at me anyway, but also about that.)
> 
> I wanted to do what that film does: to tell a story about what it's like to fall deeply in love more than once, and what love after loss looks like. 
> 
> So often we think of Harry and Draco as being each other's one and only forever (and don't get me wrong--that's one of my favourite ways to think of them), but what if someone loved someone else first? And what if it was Draco and Astoria, instead of Harry and Ginny? Anyway, hope this finds an audience out there!
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful beta @tdcat for sticking with me and offering help and encouragement along the way as I muddled through this, and to my alpha/Drastoria reader @buildyourwalls, for cheer reading and giving this another last minute once over before posting. <3
> 
> And many thanks to the Mods for their multiple extensions and undying encouragement! I love this idea for a fest and I hope it keeps happening!

Draco straightens his tie in the mirror and frowns. It always looks better when Astoria does it, but she’ll be in enough of a hurry when she gets home.

It’s a big night for her, and even though she said she’d be home early to get ready, he knows her better than that. Knows that Friday afternoons are the favourite part of her work week, when everyone else has gone home and she can spend one-on-one time with the beasts she so loves. He smiles fondly, picturing the way the Thestrals stamp their feet when they catch her scent, and how she laughs, “I’m coming, my dears” every time. He’s never seen anything like it. Astoria Greengrass, Thestral whisperer. Astoria Greengrass, love of his life.

He’d never have believed it fifteen years ago. The war had done a number on him, like it had everyone else, but it had also come at a time when he should have been figuring out what he wanted. Aside from a few confusing dreams, Draco Malfoy hadn’t been one who thought much about love or attachments. His fumbling and ultimately unsuccessful attempts with Pansy in fifth year had convinced him that a girlfriend might be . . . stretching it, for him. And the horrific events of sixth year had convinced him that it hardly mattered. There had been more pressing concerns than who to snog, after all. Seventh year was a complete write off, blotted out by nightmares and cold sweat and the expectation that he would very likely die in the next six months. But he hadn’t. And so what? After the Battle, who would want him? No one did, not for a long time. He could barely stand the sight of himself.

But life went on, as it has a habit of doing. The Death Eater Trials were swift and efficient. His own trial ended in a lenient sentence because he hadn’t taken the mark, and no one could prove he’d killed anyone. He _hadn’t_ killed anyone, for the record, but that’s how the papers put it: no one could _prove_ he did.  He was assigned menial jobs at the Ministry as a sort of community service to make amends. He was out of sight of the public, most of the time, really, which suited him fine. Sometimes he would spend days without speaking to a single soul.

The Ministry liked nothing better than to pat itself on the back, however, and would make a show of forgiveness and unity whenever it could, so he still received invitations to Ministry functions and celebrations. His sentence was nearly done when he decided to show up at the Equinox Banquet in March of 2003, just to spite them, maybe. It was there he met Astoria.      

In a room full of people who either ignored him or outright sneered at his presence, Astoria walked right over to him and spoke to him like they were old friends. He hadn’t known what to make of it. She’d invited him to dance, and to his own shock, he accepted. It had been so long since anyone had been kind, since anyone had _touched_ him at all, his eyes watered. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. They ended up spending the entire night talking in a little cafe afterwards.

She confided later, when they had been seeing each other for a few months, that she’d had a massive pash on him at school, and that her fourteen-year-old self would never have forgiven her if she hadn’t tried to talk to him at least once. And after the war, after everything, she saw something in him he didn’t know was there.

They married against their parents’ wishes, causing Draco to break contact with his parents completely. If Astoria wasn’t good enough for them, no one would be.  The two of them against the world would do just fine. He could face anything with her.

Astoria Greengrass, love of his life.

Where they _in_ love? In the ways that mattered, yes. After many, many more talks over the years of their marriage, they both knew he preferred men. But that’s all it was: a preference.  Whenever the topic was broached, he was quick to tell her that he was still very much attracted to her, and that he had no thought of being with anyone else. And it wasn’t a lie. Their sex life, while it couldn’t be called voracious, was good. There was a confidence to Astoria that brought him to his knees again and again. He loved her soft green eyes, her waves of dark hair spilling over the pillow, the smirk on her lips and the arch of her brow when she teased him. It took a long time, but he finally stopped asking what he’d done to deserve her.

He’s happy, now. It bubbles up inside him at unexpected moments. Whoever would have thought?

There’s a whine at the front door. Cupcake, their krup-maltese mix, a tightly wound ball of silvery white fluff, has taken up her post on the welcome mat in the hall. She knows what time Astoria is due home each day and, like clockwork, won’t budge until the doorknob turns. Each moment Astoria is late is pure torture for the ridiculous creature. But it’s not like Draco can’t sympathise. He prefers her home, too.  

Finally, the latch clicks and they’re both put out of their misery. Cupcake yips like she’s been alone a thousand years and jumps directly into Astoria’s arms to smother her with kisses. Astoria kisses her back and coos into the soft fur.

“Draco, love, I’m being mauled again. Where are you?” she calls out after a moment. Draco emerges from their bedroom in his best dress robes. Three quick strides and he’s there to rescue her and plant a kiss on her cheek. She eyes him up and down and lets out a low whistle. “Mr. Malfoy, you look positively edible.” Draco blushes and smiles in spite of himself. “Stop it.” He glances pointedly at the clock. “How nice to have you home early.” She elbows him in the ribs before taking his face in her hands and kissing him softly. Her lips are warm and her hair tickles his jaw as he pulls her body to his.

“Is my dress ready?”

Draco nods. “In your closet. Are you?”

“Almost. I’ll have to shower, though,” she winks suggestively and tugs at his lapels.

“Darling, we don’t have time,” he murmurs, because it’s true.

“You’re probably right,” she sighs. “Later, then.”

“It’s a promise,” he smiles. “Now, go. You’re going to be amazing tonight.”

“I know,” she responds with a tip of her chin that’s always done him in.

 

***

 

Astoria is a natural in front of a crowd, even this one, a stuffy room of the old money wizarding elite. She gives her talk with a soft ease that still somehow manages to convey her love of magical creatures and her passion for their welfare. The guests are enthralled by her, and how could they not be?

It’s a black robe affair, the annual PRAMB dinner. Many of those in attendance are looking for a non-controversial post-war cause to support, and the Protection of Rare and Magical Beasts fits the bill perfectly. Astoria built it from the ground up, after learning how many creatures were used and abused by wizards on both sides of the war. She has a place in her heart for Thestrals, especially.

Unfortunately, Thestrals are one of the harder sells. They aren’t cute or powerful or known to be of much practical use, but Astoria insists they are gentle, social creatures, and have long been mistreated by magickind, nevermind the fact that some people can’t even see them. Her proposal for a Thestral sanctuary is ambitious, even for her. The space needed for them to run and fly and mate is substantial, even magically speaking, but if anyone can bring it to fruition, it’s Astoria.

She taps her wand for the next slide, projected on the wall behind her, and Draco can’t help but feel proud of the ways he’s contributed to this project. He worked tirelessly, for months, on a photograph development serum that would allow photos to be developed directly from memories in a Pensieve--allowing even those who haven’t seen death to see Thestrals. This way, everyone can quite literally see them the way Astoria does.

The photo projected above them is a rare capture of Draco himself with a young male Thestral. He has one hand on the creature’s spine and holds out a palmful of three frozen mice. The Thestral snorts, lapping them up like sugar lumps, then nuzzles into Draco’s neck, causing him to startle and laugh.

“So, you see,” Astoria says with clear affection, “though he seems dangerous and reptilian, he’s really a smart, gentle creature.” A beat. “And then there’s the Thestral.”

The crowd bursts into uproarious laughter. A older wizard sitting at Draco’s table pats him on the shoulder while Draco shakes his head and smirks at his wife.  

The next slide shows the enclosure they currently have available to house the Thestrals.

“When Thestrals retire from serving wizards, they are either set ‘free’--a death sentence for domesticated animals--or they are brought here, where our facilities are woefully inadequate. They are not mating, which suggests they are distressed, and they die of muscular atrophy if they do not have ample opportunity for running and flying. We can do better.”

The crowd murmurs their agreement.

“Tonight, I was hoping I’d be able to announce that we’ve reached our financial goals for the expansion we so desperately need, but unfortunately, we still do not have the funds necessary to break ground on this project.”

The crowd tuts and sighs in disappointment.

“But with another year of fundraising,” Astoria continues firmly, “along with the money we raise here tonight, I believe we can reach our goal and expand the Thestral Habitat to triple its current size, as well as hire the staff needed to tend to these magnificent, misunderstood beasts.”

Applause and enthusiastic nods all around.

The lights go up and Astoria finishes her speech. “Thank you all for your tremendous support. Enjoy the evening.”

Draco’s smile is so wide it threatens to split his face, and he’s clapping so hard his hands are numb.  

Astoria leaves to join him as the band kicks up.

“Well done, darling,” he whispers in her ear.

“Thank you, love,” she whispers back, and pulls him onto the dance floor. The band strikes up an instrumental version of “[Loving You](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=OokpZ9kMYHw),” and he shoots her a look. It’s their song. She throws her palms up before placing them around his neck. “I had nothing to do with it. It’s a very popular song, you know.”

Draco nods slowly while keeping his cynical expression.

“Oh, hush up,” Astoria laughs and tilts her head up to kiss him.

They sway to the music together, but halfway through the song, Astoria stumbles. Draco catches her.

“Alright, there?” He raises a playful brow. “Hit the gin a little early this evening, did we?”

“I’m fine,” she laughs, but something doesn’t seem right. Her skin is suddenly pale, nearly translucent.

“Darling,” Draco stops moving, steadies her by her elbows. “Astoria, you don’t look well. I think we should go home.”

She looks like she’s about to protest, but then nods grimly, which scares him even more.

“All right, let’s get your coat,” he says quickly, feeling a terrible urgency rising in his chest. “We’ll Apparate from--” but before he can finish the thought, she collapses in his arms.

 

***

 

When Blaise brings Draco back to the flat at four in the morning, he’s still in shock.

The sequence of events plays over and over in a loop. Astoria’s face, pale and drawn, her eyes closed, body limp, the healers in the emergency ward asking him questions, telling him words like “blood curse,” “generational,” “no prior symptoms,” “irreversible,” “fatal.” Hearing himself saying, “No, no, no, no, no.” Shivering, reaching out to touch her face, kiss her, hold her, refusing to move until Blaise drags him away.

His mind cycles back to the beginning of the evening. “Mr. Malfoy, you look positively edible.” Hand on her hip in a blue sequin evening gown. Did he tell her she looked breathtaking? Spinning her in his arms. Feeling her breath in his ear. Swaying together. Her face turning grey.

There was nothing. Nothing he could have done.

It’s not real. It’s not happening. She’ll come through the door at any moment. Cupcake will go apeshit as usual. They’ll laugh. They’ll kiss. They’ll fuck.

Not this. This is a nightmare.

He can feel her hand on his elbow, guiding him into the sitting room. But it’s not her, it’s Blaise.

“Steady on, mate,” Blaise says into the echoing silence. “I can stay with you.”

“No.” Draco finds his voice. “No. I’d rather be alone. I need to take Cupcake out. I--”

“I’ll take Cupcake out, I can do that at least.”

“No,” Draco insists, more forceful. “I’ll do it. Go, Blaise, please.”

Blaise locks eyes with him. “Floo me, anytime, anywhere, if you need anything. Yeah?”

Draco gives a barely perceptible nod and lowers his eyes. He can feel his throat tightening.

Blaise draws him into a strong, shoulder-crushing hug, and something inside Draco breaks. He sobs into his oldest friend’s neck until his voice is raw and his tears are spent.

“There now, well done,” Blaise murmurs, “well done.”

Finally Draco steps back and runs a hand through his hair.  

Blaise leaves with a grim smile and one last pat on Draco’s shoulder. “Honestly. Any time.” The door clicks shut.

Cupcake looks up from where she was asleep on the mat and whines.

“Sorry, Cup,” Draco rasps as he slumps down. “She’s not coming home.” He curls up beside her, stroking her fur.

  
  
  
 


	2. Chapter 2

Harry wakes up in a bed not his own, but one he knows all too well. His eyes focus on Ron, sitting hunched over a magazine beside him in an armchair that’s seen better days. St Mungo’s isn’t known for its ambience.

“You’re awake, then, thank Merlin,” Ron sighs.

Harry’s throat is dry and his head spins. “Wide awake.”

Ron stares at him for a moment before shaking his head.

“Good. Because I need your help. I’ve been filling out this _Witch Weekly_ quiz on your behalf and I’m not sure I’m doing you justice.” He clears his throat. “Is it most important that a man is A: Polite to your family and friends? B: Can handle finances well? or C: Blindingly handsome?”

Harry smirks. Ron has always been the one person he can count on to treat him like a normal person when he’s injured. The last thing Harry remembers from today is getting hit by a fairly basic Stinging Hex during training. It must have hit a weird nerve or something. There’s an unsettling burning feeling in his chest, but it’s bearable. Certainly nothing he needs to be fussed over about, and Ron understands that, thank Circe.

“I’ll put down A.” Ron ticks off a box with his quill. “‘Mione would lose it on this heteronormative bullshit, but she’s not here, is she? Next question. What do you expect most from a relationship? A: Companionship? B: Sex? C: Respect?” He pretends to think about it. “I’d have to go with B, sex. But let’s mark “C” so we get a higher score.”

Harry snorts. It hurts; he can’t help wincing.

Ron abandons the magazine. “What is it, mate? You need something?”

“Just some water, thanks,” Harry replies, trying to sound casual, but he doubts Ron is fooled, judging by the look on his face.

“Yeah, of course, there we are.” Ron passes Harry paper cup filled with ice water.

Harry takes a sip. “Much better,” he manages. The truth is that his chest feels only slightly less on fire than it did ten seconds ago, but it’s something.

“Ron, you can go home. I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” Ron says quickly, “but we should really finish that quiz.”

“Ron. Go home.”

A heavy sigh escapes Ron’s lips. “I can’t,” he admits. “I’m waiting on the Healer.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Harry asks, working to keep his voice level. “This is normal, right? I’ve been here a thousand times. I’ll be home by tomorrow.”

Just then, a healer swishes the curtain of the room open. The short, silver-haired wizard glances briefly down at a chart before meeting Ron’s eye. Ron stands up and takes a deep breath. Harry doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Auror Weasley,” the man nods to Ron. “Ah, and Auror Potter,” he booms to Harry. “The Medical Marvel. You look excellent, all things considered.”

Harry looks to Ron. “Ron, what’s he talking about? Why’s he calling me that?”

“Now, now take it easy, My name is--”

“I don’t care. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Harry, just let him--”

“It’s all right,” the healer continues smoothly. “I’ll come right out with it. You’ve had a heart transplant.”

“I’ve had a _what?_ ” Harry throws his hand to his chest, over the fabric of his hospital gown, where his heart is beating just the same way it always has. “How . . .?”

“Mr. Potter, were you aware that your heart was in poor condition prior to today?”

“Well, I . . .” he looks sheepishly at Ron. “My Healer might’ve said something. A while back.”

Ron grimaces.

“And did they or did they not tell you that if you continued living the way you were, there was a chance your heart could fail altogether?”

Shit. Ron looks like he’s about combust. Hermione would have murdered him by now if she were here.

“What?” he says defensively.  “Am I on trial or something? I have a major medical procedure performed on me without my consent and I’m the bad guy?”

“No one said that,” Ron mutters, clearly seething. “And as for consent, you granted me power of attorney, last I checked. You were unconscious, and I made a call. One that saved your life, I might add. You’re welcome.”

Harry knows he should say thank you. And sorry. But that fiery feeling in his chest is returning in full force. At least he knows what’s causing that, now. He’s too panicked at the whole idea to do anything more than sit there with his mouth hanging open.

“Now that the Kneazle’s got your tongue, I’ll fill in the blanks. I’m Healer Whitehart. I specialise in curses and cardiology. As you seem to know, but perhaps need reminding, your heart appeared to have been in a weakened state long before today’s events. This can be caused by a high stress work environment, multiple curse wounds, poor health management, and a prior traumatic event or near-death experience.”

“Take your pick,” Ron huffs.  

“I’ve spoken to Sioban Ackrill, your regular Healer, and she tells me she set up a course for treatment for you that you’ve all but ignored. Simply put, Mr. Potter, you were living on borrowed time.”

Harry won’t look at Ron now. It’s all true, only Healer Ackrill hadn’t put it in quite such dire terms. And her treatment plan simply wasn’t realistic. No more fieldwork? He’d go mad. No more chips or treacle tart? Practically his only pleasures in life. Meditation? Really? One doesn’t have Voldemort take up residence in one’s brain and decide to go back there willingly. Nobody would understand. Not even Ron.  

The healer only pauses a brief moment before going on. “Auror Weasley brought you here after you collapsed during a routine training exercise. Do you remember that happening?”

“Sort of.”

“I checked your pulse,” Ron cuts in. “There wasn’t one.”

“Auror Weasley then side-alonged you here, where we had to perform some stasis and diagnostic spells before determining that your heart was minutes away from failing. It is only by sheer luck that you survived at all. Had a heart not come in last night, there would have been nothing we could have done to prolong your life further than a few hours.”

Harry’s head spins as he tries to make sense of what they’re telling him.

“Come . . . in? A heart came in? And now it’s in my . . . in me?” Wherever this heart came from, it’s beating much faster now.

“It’s a lot to take in, I understand. Most wizards have no knowledge at all of Muggle medicine, and the way it can be used to help us. Which is why it was so rare to have a heart available for you in the first place. The deceased would had to have had their wishes outlined clearly before they died in order to have their organs donated. And in order to do so, they must have been familiar with both Muggle and wizarding medicine themselves. The coincidence alone is nothing short of miraculous.”

“The _deceased_?” Harry wants to be sick. And he’s already had enough of the word “miraculous” for ten lifetimes. He should feel lucky. He should be grateful. All the “shoulds” of this whole situation come crashing down on him at once, and before he knows it’s he’s shaking uncontrollably.

Ron sits beside him on the bed and puts an arm around him. Harry lets him.

He can barely get a word out, but he has to know.

“Who?”

“That’s confidential, of course. Even I don’t know.”

“But--it was a person? With a family? They died and then you--”

“I’ve already given you all of the facts,” Healer Whitehart says briskly.

This is too much. The familiar rush of anger and adrenaline rises in his chest. “No! You can’t just tell me that and--” he catches his breath. The fiery pain returns, but he pushes past it. “And I can’t even thank them--their family? Or say I’m sorry? Or, or--”

“You can write them an anonymous letter. That’s all I can offer. It works the same way in Muggle medicine. Confidentiality is key for moving on, both for you and for the donor’s family.”

 _The donor._ What a cold expression.

Whitehart glances over his shoulder at Ron as he leaves the room. “See that he gets a proper rest. He’s got a long and painful recovery ahead.”

Harry watches him leave in disbelief.

“Pity he didn’t give me his heart. He’s not using it, is he?”

Ron doesn’t respond.

Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “Ron. I’m sorry.”

The room is silent for a moment before Ron clears his throat and speaks. “I wish I believed you.”

“I _am_. I just . . . wasn’t thinking. Wasn’t too focussed on the consequences, I guess.”

“Oh, how unlike you,” Ron snipes.

“Well, it’s not easy, okay?”

“Never said it was.”

“I know, but, you have Hermione, and your kids, and you haven’t died, like, at _all_ in this lifetime, which is pretty lucky, you know?”

Ron doesn’t laugh at this joke either, his expression pained.

“Harry, _you_ have Hermione. And me. And the kids, and loads of other people who love you and care about you. You have to know that. And the dying thing, well, yeah, there is that. But when have you ever used that as an excuse to be an irresponsible idiot?”

Harry grins. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

Ron sighs, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Well, it’s time you stopped. Fuck’s sake, mate, it’s getting old.”

“We’re all getting old. I had a heart attack.”

“Yeah, you don’t say. In your thirties. I think that should tell you something, yeah?”

“Like . . .”

“Like slow the fuck down, maybe? Take a Healer’s advice for once? Go on holiday. I don’t know! But something has to change.”

Harry’s knows Ron’s right. He almost lost everything. Again.

“All right,” he sighs wearily.

“All right, what, exactly?”

“All right, let’s make some changes,” Harry mutters, defeated.

Ron brightens. “Brilliant. We’ll talk with Hermione about everything tomorrow. I do have to be getting home soon. But first things first.” Ron picks up _Witch Weekly,_ and takes his quill from behind his ear. “Describe your dream date . . .”

Harry settles back on the lumpy pillows, rolls his eyes, and tries not to think about the future.


	3. Chapter 3

_363 Days Later_

Cupcake yips at a pitch and volume that might as well be directly into Draco’s ear.

“Fuck,” he groans. It’s barely six in the morning, early even for him. “What is it this time? Who’s going to murder us in our sleep? Did the coffee maker threaten you again?”

She scratches at the door incessantly in response. Draco doesn’t bother asking why she never made Astoria take her out this early. No point going there.

The doorbell rings and Cupcake all but flips over from the excitement. Throwing his legs over the edge of the sofa, Draco scoops up Cupcake and goes to look through the door’s  peephole. He’s greeted with a familiar hand flipping him off.

_Blaise. Fuck._

Not that he minds his friend coming by, under normal circumstances. The past year has only brought them closer. But dropping by at the arse-crack of dawn is not something they do. This visit can’t mean anything good. And Blaise will most definitely have something to say about the fact that he’s still obviously sleeping on the sofa every night.

“I know you’re in there, Draco,” Blaise sing songs.

Draco yanks the door open. “No fucking kidding,” he growls. “Home is where most people are at this ungodly hour.” He sets Cupcake down so she can hump Blaise’s leg into oblivion, as she’s gotten into the habit of doing every time she sees him. Serves him right.

Blaise saunters in, unfazed, with Cupcake firmly attached and panting. “You should really get this poor thing fixed, you know. I’ll do nothing but break her heart.”

“Who knew you were such a gentleman,” Draco responds dryly. “And you know I can’t. No safe way to do it to a halfbreed.”

“Sounds like something your grandmother would say.”

Draco wills himself not to chuckle and allow Blaise to think he’s clever.

“You’re terrible.”

“Said the kettle to the pot.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

Blaise looks about the room before speaking. “It’s polite to ask me to sit down, but I suppose it would be awkward for me to sit on your bed.” He gestures to the ratty pillow and afghan strewn onto the couch cushions.

Draco sighs. “Blaise, I’m not in the mood, today.”

“Yes, well.” Blaise dislodges Cupcake from his femur, sits down atop Draco’s pillow and settles Cupcake onto his lap. “Be that as it may. I have a proposition for you.”

“There’s a phrase I never wanted to hear you say.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. But while we’re on the topic of--”

“We’re not.”

Blaise leans back and takes a deep breath. “Draco.” The teasing is gone from his voice and he eyes his friend with genuine concern. “You can’t go on like this.”

“Like what?”

“This.” He waves his hand vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Alone. Working eighteen hours a day. Camping on the sofa like some sort of vagabond or a--”

Draco scoffs. “Good word.”

“Don’t interrupt. I’m about to give a very moving speech that I’ve worked quite hard on.”

Draco gives up and sits down next to Blaise. “Far be it from me, then. Continue.”

“Thank you. Ahem. Like a vagabond, or the hot widow in that sad made-for-television film who can’t decorate for Christmas because her husband used to do the lights on the eaves and she’s afraid of heights so she just sits in her sad dark house and everybody else on the street has--”

Draco won’t crack a smile. He won’t.

“Please. Promise me you have a point.”

Blaise pauses again.

“It’s been a year,” he says quietly.

“No, it hasn’t.”

“Yes, Draco,” Blaise continues, gentle and slow, “it has. And--”

“No, Blaise, it bloody fucking hasn’t!” Draco shouts and throws up his arms. He wasn’t going to do this, get _dramatic_ , but it feels quite cathartic, so he keeps going.

“It’s been three hundred and fifty five days and--” Draco glances at the clock in the hall “--and, sixteen hours, and--” his breath catches in his throat as he whispers, “and twenty-eight minutes.”

“All right.” Blaise lets out a slow breath. “All right. And you’ve been miserable for every single one of them.”

“Yes! Thank you for noticing! What of it?”

“Could you just let me try to help you?”

Well, now he’s gone and done it. Blaise has those stupid, sincere puppy dog eyes. Draco can’t help but soften a little. He knows how much Blaise actually cares. But it’s not that simple.

“How could you help more than you already have, Blaise? You’ve done all you can. And I’m truly grateful. You’ve no idea how grateful. But this is my life. Nothing can change that.”

“Wrong,” Blaise says simply. “You’re being defeatist. It doesn’t suit you, frankly. You never meet anyone, you don’t go anywhere. You spend all your time obsessing over that sanctuary--”

“That _still_ isn’t finished.”

“Fuck, Draco. You’ve done a hell of a job getting it this far! Don’t you dare say otherwise. And honestly, have you even thought about shagging someone?”

Draco shoots him a warning glance, which causes Blaise to throw up his hands.

“I mean no disrespect. None whatsoever. You know that. I adored Astoria. But she’s gone and you’re _here._ And you’re plenty young to find someone else--”

“There is no one else--”

“Fine, fine, not find someone else, but at least have some fun with someone else, yeah? She’d want you to have fun. And as I recall, she was quite a forward thinking woman. She’d approve of you finding some bird or bloke and just--”

“Just what? Fucking them in our marriage bed? Introducing them to Cupcake? Having lemon scones together in the morning over tea? Merlin, Blaise, you can’t know, you can’t understand what it’s like.”

Blaise sighs like he’s about to give up, but Draco knows better. “What’s your plan, then, hm? What’s the alternative? Alone forever until Cupcake leaves you for me? I’m sorry, but we both know it’s bound to happen one of these days.”

He straightens up and looks Draco dead in the eye, and Draco senses the second half of the aforementioned speech coming on.

“And _Circe,_ no one said anything about your marriage bed. Merlin’s _tits_. Get blown in a pub toilet for all I care. Take up pottery. Become a burlesque dancer. Just fucking _live_ a little. Live like someone who’s, you know, _alive._ It’s got to be better than this. Astoria loved you, wanted the best for you, and wanted more than anything for you to love yourself. And to be honest, I don’t even think you’re trying. And as your best mate--who also loves the shit out of you, as you well know--it breaks my fucking heart.”

Draco hastily wipes away a tear and keeps his voice even. “Finished, then?”

“I saw that.”

“Lovely speech. Truly. I hope you kept a copy.”

“Yeah?” Blaise grins. “It didn’t sag a bit in the middle?”

Draco waves him off. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but didn’t you say something about a proposition?”

“I did!” Blaise’s eyes shine in a way that makes Draco want to run right out the door. “Get that look off your face and listen: One date.”

“No.”

“Just one. A double date with me and Tula.”

“No.”

“Hardly a date! A meeting with friends! Nobody will look sideways at four people getting together in a pub!”

“Blaise, no.”

“Well, I have to be going. Do think on it, will you? For Cupcake’s sake?”

Cupcake stirs as Blaise nudges her out of his lap to get up. She eyes Draco with reproach as she sinks into the sofa cushion snout first.

Fucking great.

Draco sighs. “I’ll entertain it for one more moment before saying no again.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Brilliant.”

“Oh, and Draco? This is the bloke I want to set you up with. He’s already agreed.”

He flicks a photo in Draco’s direction just as he heads out the door. “Owl me!”

Draco’s first instinct is to incendio the photo before glancing at it, but he pauses instead and looks--really looks--at his surroundings. For the first time in a long time, he sees his life as it really is: living with a pet who barely tolerates him, afraid to sleep in his own bed. Blaise is right, the prat.

And the man in the photo is _fit._ Looks a bit like Gilderoy Lockhart in his prime, though Draco would never admit to that fantasy out loud _._ And he’s smiling in a smug, playful way that’s always done it for him.

Perhaps one meal couldn’t hurt.

Ten minutes later, the owls are winging their way across the city.

_“When?”_

_“Tomorrow. Lunch.”_

_“Fine.”_

“ _Wear something that isn’t black.”_

_“Piss off.”_

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Oi! Potter--” Harry feels the snap of the wet dish towel on his left arsecheek, stinging through his trousers. “--This is lunch hour at the busiest pub on Diagon, not the bloody ballet! Get moving!”

“’M going as fast as I can!” he yelps, indignant. If it were anyone but Lee Jordan, he’d have quit months ago, but he has to admit, working at Lee’s is usually fun and never dull. And if he makes a mistake, at least he knows no one’s life is on the line. Plus Lee’s a decent sort, if a little high strung. 

“Well, two more tables just got seated, making six in your section alone, and we’re already behind, so I hope you’ve got a Time-Turner up that skinny arse of yours or we’re done for.”

“We’re done for.” That’s Lee’s favourite line, the dramatic berk. If we don’t get that shipment of crisps in the next hour, we’re done for. If we don’t find an extra server for karaoke night, we’re done for. If we run out of Odgens during the Quidditch finals . . . well, that one _was_ pretty bad.

Still, it’s not a bad life he has, now. Harry, Ron, and Hermione had plenty of time to discuss his options post-surgery, as the recovery was indeed frustratingly slow and painful. When he’d first woken up that day with Ron, he’d had no idea how much pain-serum had already been pumped into his veins. The fiery feeling in chest had grown worse, not better, in the weeks and months afterwards, as he tried to wean himself off of the drugs and move around like he used to. Living alone at Grimmauld was no longer an option, but he’d hated the idea of moving in with Ron and Hermione and encroaching on the life of their family, no matter how much they insisted he was welcome. They’d wracked their brains over what to do once he was fully discharged, until one night over dinner at the Burrow, George thwacked his hand on the table. “I’ve got it! You can move in with Lee!”

Lee Jordan opened up a magical sports-themed pub that year, boasting traditional magic pub fare and ambience, while also offering a few Muggle twists--including a staggering selection of craft beer and oversized television screens mounted on the walls. It took off immediately. It took off so fast that Lee could barely manage to staff it. He lived upstairs in a two-bedroom flat, and was currently looking for a trustworthy flatmate who might be able to give him a bit of a break from managing the pub from time to time.

Harry was doubtful at first--he knew nothing about the service industry, and while he liked Lee well enough, he didn’t really know him either. There was also the small fact that he was bound to be harassed daily by those who would come to gawp at The Boy Who Waited Tables.

But everyone else thought it was a brilliant idea. It would keep him busy, distract him from negative thoughts, and give him a sense of purpose without threatening to kill him.

As for the Boy Who Lived issue, Lee promised to enforce strict privacy policies--no press, no cameras, and any customer who gave Harry a hard time would not be allowed back.

In the end, Harry gave up and decided he might as well give it a go. As for those pesky but harmless fans, Lee helped him come up with a response based on a Muggle TV show he saw once. Any time someone said something to the tune of “Aren’t you Harry Potter?” Harry just laughed and said, “Oh, I get that all the time,” and continued taking their order. It worked surprisingly well.

So, as it turns out, everyone was right. It’s a good fit. He finds himself looking forward to the day ahead when he wakes up, instead of dreading it. He likes helping out in the kitchen, putting his limited but useful knowledge of cooking to good use, likes the satisfying monotony of wiping down all the tables and chairs after closing, the hum of the wireless keeping him company. And, to his own surprise, he likes waiting tables.

Or, he did. Right up until now, when his eyes rest on the newest customers in his section. Blaise Zabini, the tosser. He doesn’t recognize the other two, at least. Still, he has no desire to make small talk with his least favourite Slytherin.

Or, second least favourite.

Well, come to think of it, they were all pretty horrible.

He’s made a point of not keeping up with the lives of the classmates he doesn’t associate with anymore. Best not to dwell, afterall. So, maybe Blaise is a good bloke now, but Harry has no desire to find out. And what’s he doing here, anyway? Last Harry checked, Blaise was as snooty as Malfoy, and wouldn’t step foot in a place as “common” as Lee’s for all the gold in Gringott’s.

“Potter!” Lee barks again, interrupting his thoughts. “Fuck, are you practicing legilimency?”

“No,” Harry says stupidly.

“Then _how_ , in the name of Merlin’s glittering arsehole, are you going to get your customer’s orders from here? Hm?

Harry grunts and cocks his head in their direction.

Lee follows Harry’s gaze and shrugs, unimpressed. “And? I’ve served worse than them before.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest but Lee won’t hear it.

“Harry. Nobody’s arranging a marriage. Just take their fucking orders and keep moving, all right?”

So much for sympathy. Harry nods quickly, takes a fortifying breath and walks towards their table.

Their heads are bent over their menus when he approaches, so Harry gives his usual greeting.

“Good afternoon. I’m--”

“Potter?” Blaise’s deep baritone voice cuts him off. “I had no idea you worked here. I’m just here with some . . . oh, _shit_ ,” he hisses slapping a palm to the back of his neck.  He’s not putting it on, as far as Harry can tell. He looks genuinely mortified, which is sort of strange.

The other two people at the table, a woman with cropped blue hair dressed in smart black tunic and a fit blondish fellow in what Ron would definitely call a “poncey striped suit,” are completely unruffled.

Harry clears his throat, “As I was saying, I’ll be your server. Can I start you off with some drinks?”

“Gin, straight,” Blaise says in a daze. Harry thinks he hears him mutter something like, “He’s going to kill me,” under his breath, but decides it’s best to ignore that. If Blaise Zabini has gone round the twist, it’s really none of his business.

“Is your friend always fashionably late?” The other man asks Blaise, an impatient edge to his voice. “Should we wait to order until he gets here?”

“I suppose we should,” Blaise responds, giving his head a firm shake before turning back to Harry. “Give us another five, would you?”

“Sure,” Harry says doubtfully.

He heads back to the kitchen to fetch an order for the next table, careful to check and double check everything before bringing it out. Just two people at this one, two young women, a couple, from the looks of it, staring dreamily into each other’s eyes, hands clasped on the table.

 _What’s that like?_ Harry can’t help but wonder. It’s been years since he dated anyone. Starting full time with the DMLE right out of the gate was as good an excuse as any not to pursue a relationship. He and Ginny had tried to pick things up after the war, but neither of their hearts had been in it. They’d fizzled out, rather than broken up, whatever the _Prophet_ wanted to say about it.

Since then, he’s learned a few things about himself. That he’s bisexual, for one--really, upon reflection, he should have seen that coming. He doubts Ron has ever woken up hard after a more than platonic dream about Oliver Wood. But also, somewhat disappointingly, that he’s not all that interested in sex. Or at least, not interested in sex the way he feels he should be interested. One-night-stands do nothing for him. Any time he’s tried has been a miserable failure, in fact. He can’t help wondering if there’s something wrong with him. The handful of people he’s tried to be with were not reassuring on that front.  

He watches the way the women at the table look at each other, like they’re speaking their own language, with its own history and familiar rituals. And perhaps he’s making it all up and they hardly know each other, but something tells him that’s less likely.  And he wonders if he’ll ever have something like that. Maybe it’s just not in the cards for him. Really, he shouldn’t be asking for anything more than he has, should he? And yet. Part of him wants to laugh at the cruel irony of having undergone a heart transplant just to die alone at the end of it all.

Fuck. Not doing well with the bleak thoughts today.

After setting the food down and ensuring the women at the table don’t need anything else, Harry turns back towards the kitchen. The entryway bell tinkles as a single customer comes in, a little dishevelled. Harry can only see the back of his head at the moment--light blond hair, cropped at the neck and a little longer up top--it looks soft to the touch. The man is in a rush, obviously. Probably late. He slides a pale pink scarf off of his matching pale, slender neck and hangs it on one of the coat hooks, then shrugs a jacket from his shoulders.

Harry watches, transfixed, unable to help himself. There’s something familiar, something striking in the way he moves, rushed though he obviously is, his long limbs and harsh lines managing to look cool and intentional even amid chaos. He turns around, presumably to scan the room for whoever he’s meeting. Harry’s heart beats a little faster, the stupid thing, like it’s hoping their eyes will meet or some other nonsense.

But they don’t. And it’s a good thing. Because the world has gone mad, or he has, or both. Because the stranger that Harry’s been staring at for no particular reason is none other than Draco Malfoy, and he’s waving to Blaise, and he’s making his way to sit at that table.


	5. Chapter 5

_Lee’s Sports Pub,_ the neon lights shout garishly from the window. Of all the places Blaise would choose. Yes, Draco told him to keep it casual but Merlin and Morgana, this is too far.

Astoria would scold him for being such a snob, but it wouldn’t have stopped her from mocking it with him when they got home. There’s a twinge in his chest that comes with remembering her laugh, reminding him that this pain, though at different times searing, or dull, or aching, will never go away, not really. But he pushes that thought from his mind and looks at his watch. Fuck, he’s already late. Picking up the pace, but refusing to run, he crosses the street and rushes inside.

He spots Blaise with Tula and the man who is supposed to be his date, and breaks into a cold sweat. He’s not ready for this. No, but he’s going to do it anyway. Blaise waves him over.

“Draco! So glad you could make it.”

“My apologies for being late.” Draco sinks down awkwardly next to the mystery man and can’t bring himself to address him properly. “I was tied up at work. Bloody Kingsbury got the measurements wrong for the third time. I’ve half a mind to--”

Blaise clears his throat and narrows his eyes. Right. Best not to launch into a work-related rant when you haven’t even introduced yourself. It’s like he’s forgotten how manners work. He hasn’t needed them for a while.

Closing his eyes for a brief second, he turns to his right and smiles at the man beside him.

“I’m Draco."

The man offers a tight smile in return. “Gerard.”

He’s as attractive as he looked in the picture. In person he reminds Draco more of that Muggle film star--Hugh something-or-other.

“Hello, Draco,” Tula says from across the table. “Nice to see you out and about.”

“Thank you, Tula, you as well.”

An awkward pause.

“So,” Draco forges ahead, nodding to Gerard. “Blaise tells me you’re from France. I’ve spent a few summers in Paris.”

Gerard grimaces. “Oh, I know your sort,” he groans. “Spends a few summers in Paris and is suddenly a French culture aficionado. I don’t go near Paris in the summer. We keep to Beaujolais from May to October.”

Blaise forces a laugh. “It must be nice for you to be out-classed for once, eh, Draco?”

Draco sends him the briefest withering glare. This man may be a snob but he’s got less class than a sugar lump. What was Blaise thinking of, setting Draco up with this prat?

“Now that you’re here, we should signal the waiter for drinks,” Gerard huffs. “He should have been here the moment you arrived. The service here is quite lacking, I must say.”

 _Do I sound like that?_ Draco can’t help thinking. He’d been all for sneering at this place before he sat down, but now that Gerard is turning his nose up at it, Draco has a strong inclination to defend it.

“Right, well, about the server . . .” Blaise looks meaningfully at Draco. “an old classmate of ours. I didn’t know, I swear it . . .”

He looks nervous. Too nervous. Very unlike Blaise. But Draco can’t think why. He stopped caring what Hogwarts alumni think of him ages ago. Blaise knows that. It’s not as if Harry fucking Potter is going to be waiting on them, is it?

“I’m sure it’s fine, Blaise,” he says briskly.

“Well, you see the thing is . . .”

“Has everyone in your party arrived?” A warm voice rumbles from above his left shoulder. It’s a familiar voice. Too familiar. He looks up and finds himself staring into the wide, green eyes of the Golden Boy himself.

Harry fucking Potter, in a black t-shirt, low slung jeans and a stupid red apron. And a pencil behind his ear, tangled in that jet-black mane of chaos, which he’s grown out, Draco can’t help but notice. It’s a good look for him, damn it.

_Fuck me sideways._

“Potter!” he exclaims before he can think properly.

“Malfoy.”

“You two know each other?” Gerard asks blankly.

“Same year at school,” Blaise explains, then quickly changes the subject. “How long have you worked here?”

“A few months,” Potter replies, sliding his fingers into his hair and bringing out the pencil.

“Not with the Aurors anymore, then?” Draco can’t resist asking.

“Old news, Draco.” _Draco._ Potter looks as shocked as Draco feels that he’s just used Draco’s given name. “Er, so what can I get you?”

At that, Gerard takes charge, and Draco loathes him more with every syllable that escapes his mouth.

“I’ll start with a coffee.”

“Coffee, got it--” Potter starts scratching on a notepad, hair falling in front of his eyes.

“No. No, no. I’m not finished. _Colombian_ coffee, freshly ground, freshly brewed, for no less than forty-five seconds, with just a splash of milk.”

Potter smirks. “You do know this is a sports pub, yeah?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Gerard continues. “And any establishment that serves food should be able to produce a simple cup of coffee.”

“Simple cup of coffee,” Potter murmurs with a slight shake of his head. “Coming right up.”

Gerard scowls.

Blaise orders his gin, Tula a glass of house red, and then all eyes fall to Draco, who’s dreadfully discomposed at the moment, dealing with the behaviour of his supposed date and the uncomfortable way his eyes keep wanting to find Potter’s.

“Er, what would you suggest?”

Potter hesitates, as if he suspects Draco is trying to trap him somehow.

“Um. What do you like?”

Draco says the first word he sees on the chalkboard over by the bar.

“Ale?”

“Is that a question?”

“No! No, I’m sure. I like ale.”

“All right,” Potter nods slowly. “I suggest a blonde, then.”

“Pardon?”

Potter’s cheeks rosy up a bit before he says, “The blonde _ale_. You know, something pale, a little dry? Just . . .I dunno . . . seems like you might like it?”

“Yes. One of those,” Draco decides hastily and throws a menu up in front of his face.

“Brilliant. I’ll get those for you right away.” Potter shuffles off, pencil back behind his ear.

Draco chances another look at Blaise, who mouths “I’m sorry” from across the table. Oh, he’d better be sorry. He’d better be more than sorry. This is a disaster and the evening’s only just begun.

Air. He needs air.

“Please excuse me a moment.”

Draco pushes back his chair without bothering to check with anyone at the table and makes for the exit. He just needs a minute. Just a chance to collect himself. He passes the kitchen on the way out, and he can’t help but peek inside. There’s Potter, arranging drinks on a platter--theirs, Draco realizes, spotting the beer, wine, and gin. Potter then reaches for a mug, for Gerard’s coffee, presumably, and stares at it a moment. Interesting. Then, without giving it another thought, Potter dunks the mug into the sink filled with dishwater, draws it out, full, and mutters something under his breath that turns the water turns a rich coffee brown. He places it on the platter.

Draco can’t help it. He snorts.

Potter whirls around. “Oh, I, er . . . shit.” His shoulders fall in defeat, then he reaches for the mug.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Draco drawls, delighted. “I only ask that you wait until I’m back at the table when you give it to him.”

Potter’s face is frozen into something resembling shock before he apparently decides that Draco is, for once, on his side; then it dissolves into a conspiratorial grin. “Where did you _find_ him?”

What’s this? Potter genuinely smiling in his direction? This is new. This is . . . nevermind what this is.

Draco ducks into the doorframe so he won’t be spotted.

“I assure you, I didn’t,” he says, relaxing. “Blaise did. Under a bridge, apparently.”

This time Potter laughs. “Merlin, and I thought _you_ were a snob.”

“I beg your pardon, I _am_ a snob. I simply know how to be charming about it.”

Potter raises both eyebrows.

“Is that my blonde?” Draco asks, changing the subject before it can devolve into insults they might actually mean. He juts his chin out in the direction of the drink tray.

“It is.”

“Could I try it? I have no idea about beer.”

“You’re kidding,” Potter deadpans. “Then why did you order one?”

“I don’t know,” is Draco’s honest answer, already regretting how daft he must sound. “Seems like the thing you’re supposed to order here.”

“Alright, have a sip, then.” Potter passes the glass to Draco and waits.

Draco tries it, then tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his reaction. It’s more bitter than he expected, and dry but in all the wrong ways.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“I do rather, yes,” he admits sheepishly.

“Can I offer you a freshly brewed cup of Colombian dishwater?”

The both laugh. It feels _good_ , warm and comfortable. An old peculiar feeling washes over Draco. He’s enjoying himself. Which makes absolutely no sense, since he and Potter never shared a pleasant moment together in their lives. But now that they are, Draco doesn’t want it to end. He can’t hide out in the pub kitchen forever, though. He sticks his head out at exactly the wrong moment. Blaise sees him. There’ll be steam coming out of his ears at any moment now.

“Fuck, I’ve been spotted. I . . . really don’t want to go back there.”

“So don’t,” Potter shrugs, like it’s just that easy.

“Blaise is a friend. And he’s trying to help me.”

“Over a cliff?”

“Ha fucking ha. Help me . . . move on. My wife died last year.”

Potter looks stricken. But he has to have known. It was in every paper.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he says earnestly, words tumbling out in a rush. “I heard a while back, but . . . something else was going on with me at the time or I would have . . .” his cheeks colour, “I mean, I _should_ have . . .  Fuck, I’m really sorry.”

There it is, _Draco_ again. He tries to ignore that and Potter’s lame excuse for not at least acknowledging Astoria’s death. He didn’t care at the time, but now that he thinks of it, a card might have been nice. Meaningless, since Potter probably sends his regards when a colleague’s houseplant dies, but nice all the same. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have received it well. It’s hard to say. Best to change the subject.

“Not as sorry as Blaise will be for fixing me up with that bellend,” he mutters.

Potter’s mouth drops open (in a most pleasing way, Draco notes reluctantly). “He’s your _date?_ ”

“Well he sure as fuck isn’t my friend,” Draco scoffs.

“Wow.”

Draco could swear he actually sees pity there. And that’s when he decides to capitalize on the do-gooder nature of Gryffindors. He needs a favour, and who better to ask?

“Harry,” he says tentatively, trying it on for size, and finding he doesn’t mind it, or the way it makes the other man’s eyes fasten on him in surprise. “I don’t suppose you would do me a favour?”

Potter’s eyes shine with something resembling mischief, like he knows what Draco’s going to ask.

“You want me to give you an out.”

Heat creeps up Draco’s neck. “You’re smarter than you look, I’ll grant you that.”

Potter doesn’t seem bothered by the backhanded insult. “It’s not the first time someone’s asked me to get them out of a bad date. I don’t suppose you have a mobile I could call for a fake emergency?”

Draco shakes his head. “I doubt Blaise would buy that anyway. He’s the only person who would call me for that reason, and he’s already here.”

“Hmm,” Potter leans against the counter behind him and waves a stasis spell over the drinks on the platter while furrowing his brow. “Something to do with your work? _Do_ you work?”

“Yes, I _work_ , Potter,” Draco grits his teeth. “I work my bloody arse off.” Potter really must be out of touch if he doesn’t know that.

“All right, so, what if I owl you? Something to do with work?”

Draco considers it for a moment. Blaise will probably still see through it, but he won’t press the matter in public.

“That might just do,” he says. “All right.” He can’t help but smile. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The great Harry Potter, sending him a fake owl to get him out of a date. In what universe?

“All right. But you’ll owe me one,” Potter says with a light mocking tone. It does something strange to Draco’s insides.

“Potter, the whole world owes you one,” he remarks with an eyeroll.

He shrugs. “Still.”

“Put it on my tab, then,” Draco sighs. “Send the owl in about ten minutes?”

“Roger that,” Potter replies with a jaunty salute. _Gryffindors_. “But first, coffee.”

And Merlin, does Potter have a gorgeously wicked grin.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry watches Malfoy--Draco?--saunter back to his table and takes a moment to steady himself.

“What just happened?” he says aloud. What _was_ that?

And fuck, he’s so behind, Lee will have his arse, but, if he could just have a moment to process--

“--Potter, I swear by Salazar Slytherin’s ballsack--” Lee growls out of nowhere. It’s not a good sign when he resorts to Slytherin curses.

“On it!” Harry jumps away from the counter and takes the platter of drinks without a second glance.

Placing the drinks on the table and pretending he was most certainly _not_ just chatting with the elegantly bored man who won’t meet his eye just now, Harry does his best to be professional.

“You wanted the red,” he smiles at Tula and gingerly slides the glass her way.

“Gin on the rocks for Zabini,” he mutters.

“Blonde for the blond . . .” He dutifully adjusts the coaster for Draco without daring to look up.

“And a simple cup of coffee for you, sir.” Gerard nods warily.

Draco clears his throat. “Thank you.”

Gerard sips his coffee. “Aaah, _there_ , you see?” A condescending smile spreads across his face. “Was that so difficult? _This_ is coffee as it should be.”

Harry shouldn’t look at Malfoy. He should get on with taking their meal orders but he can’t help himself. He steals a glance, and is delighted to find Malfoy looking straight back at him, sucking in his cheeks in a telltale way that means he is this close to laughing, biting his lip so hard Harry’s almost worried he’ll do himself harm.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, the meal order invitation on the tip of his tongue, Harry makes the mistake of looking to Gerard once again, who’s already finished half the cup of coffee and oh, fuck, he’s not going to keep it together.

He barely manages to disguise the guffaw that comes out of his mouth with a cough into his elbow.

“Excuse me.” He coughs again. Gerard is positively aghast, which doesn’t make this any easier.    

“Dreadfully sorry. Nothing contagious.”

Malfoy cocks his head to the side ever so slightly, conveying a wordless _That’s the best you can come up with?_ Which is downright unfair, all things considered. Harry widens his eyes and purses his lips in Malfoy’s general direction as if to say, “Stop that, _you_.” He’s rewarded with a look of mock innocence that would appease the bloody Pope.

Merlin. _Get it together, Potter._

“Right,” Harry says forcefully, half to himself. “Ready to order, then?”

Gerard drones on about the crispness of a proper cheese toastie before finally allowing the rest of the people at the table the luxury of ordering.

Malfoy looks like he’d rather transfigure his necktie into a noose.

Harry comes away with the orders scrawled on his notepad, even messier than usual, because for some reason he’s sweating buckets and the pencil was slippery.

His thoughts return to the thing he promised to do next: send a fake owl within the next . . . three minutes. Should he actually write a fake message on it? Or will Malfoy come up with the excuse himself? What if someone reads it over his shoulder? Where does Malfoy even work? He’d neglected to mention it. Harry adds it to the vast list of things he should probably know, but doesn’t.

Writing a note to Draco Malfoy . . . the thought sparks a memory he’d long forgotten. A memory of a note Malfoy once sent to him--a poorly drawn cartoon of himself, falling off his broom when those fucking dementors were at Hogwarts. It had been folded into a paper crane for fuck’s sake. Merlin, but Malfoy had been a prick at thirteen. Decades in the past, and hardly the worst of Malfoy’s sins, but still. One good turn deserves another, and this one is long overdue.

Grinning slyly to himself, Harry tears a page from his notepad and gets to work.

 

*******

 

“And then _I_ said to Mother . . . ‘That’s not the merlot, it’s the cabernet!’” Gerard chortles in a way that reminds Harry of Slughorn. He can hear it as he clears plates three tables over. And he may be imagining it, but it would seem Draco has pointedly cleared his throat from across the room at least twice. Harry clatters the plates a little more loudly than is necessary in answer. He can wait another minute.

Finally, Harry deigns to rescue Draco from his misery, arrives at their table, the piece of parchment folded in hand.

“Excuse me, Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes?” he responds, too eagerly.

“It seems we have an Owl for you.”

“How odd,” he remarks, frowning.

 _Overselling it a little_ , Harry thinks.

He catches Blaise dramatically resting his chin in his palm and rolling his eyes, but quickly reverts his attention back to Malfoy, because the best part of this is coming.  

He’s no artist, that’s for certain, but he has enough meagre talent for the portrait he drew of Gerard drinking from a mug labelled “cow shite” to be more than passable.

Malfoy thinks so too. He unfolds the note and and a “Ha!” escapes his lips before he can stop it, which prompts him to turn a deliciously striking shade of crimson.

Blaise’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and Gerard snaps, “What is it?”

“Er, ah, work,” Malfoy says without conviction.  “Kingsbury’s notes are always a bit . . . batty.” He looks to Harry and says slowly, “Sometimes I wonder if he’s of sound mind.”

“Perhaps you should share the note with your friends,” Harry suggests helpfully, the old blood between them rising to this new challenge. “See what they make of it.”

“Oh, yes, _do_ , Draco. We’d all love a good laugh wouldn’t we?” Blaise puts in.

Malfoy glares. “That would be terribly unprofessional, of course.”

“More unprofessional than--”

“Thank you for the message, Potter,” Malfoy folds the notes into his pocket and smooths his trousers before standing up. “I’m afraid it’s urgent. I need to deal with something at once.” The look he sends Blaise quells any further ribbing.

“What a shame,” Harry sighs. “I’ll bring the rest of your orders out in a moment, all right?”

“Yes, such a pity,” Malfoy murmurs as he tips his chin at the table. “Another time, then.”

“Right,” Blaise says shortly.

“I’ll see you to the door,” Harry hears himself offer.

“Thank you, but that’s quite unnecessary.”

“Oh.”

His declining should be a relief, but if it is, relief feels an awful lot like disappointment. Harry gives his head a shake and mutters “good evening” before heading back to the kitchen.

He doesn’t dare look in the direction of the door until he hears the bell and feels the rush of cool air come in from the street.

It’s then that Harry scans the entrance wistfully, and notices that Malfoy has left his scarf behind.

 

***

 

Stupid, really, to wonder when Malfoy will be back to retrieve his scarf. He probably has a dozen just like it at home. Still, something stopped Harry from handing it to Blaise as he was leaving that evening, and he doesn’t care to examine what.

Lee, on the other hand, won’t leave him alone about it. He keeps muttering something about sixth year, whatever that has to do with anything.

Harry wipes down the bar counter and pretends not to hear him. Wind rattles the door and Harry’s eyes dart to the entrance.

“Not him,” Lee remarks. “Just the wind.”

“Who?” Harry says, vigorously scrubbing at an invisible mark.

“You bloody well know who.” Lee sidles next to him and parks his arse on a bar stool. “Malfoy. You’re waiting for him to come back, yeah?”

“What? That’s ridiculous.” And it _is._ He’s not waiting for Malfoy per _se_. Or at least that’s not all he’s doing. It’s been too long since the whole place got a good deep clean and tonight’s as good a night as any to get to it before heading upstairs to an empty bed. He always has trouble sleeping if he goes upstairs too early. On another night he might catch dinner with Ron or visit Teddy, but tonight he feels like staying in. He just needs to keep busy.  

“Oh?” Lee flashes a toothy grin. “So that wasn’t his scarf I saw you sniffing earlier?”

Fuck, Lee saw that, did he? Harry didn’t mean to of course; he was just straightening things out over there and it _happened_ to brush his face as he dusted the door knob. It was surprisingly soft.  

And it smelled really fucking good. Like spicy vanilla and a hint of something else, something strangely familiar and . . . cozy? Did that make sense?

“I-- _No_. I was just checking--er, checking . . .”

“Potter.” Lee’s voice is softer than usual, but still firm. “Cut the shit. You fancy him.”

“I . . .” How is that even possible?

Lee waits for him to finish his thought.

“I . . .” he tries again before giving up. “ _Do_ I?”

“Well,” Lee says carefully, “let’s look at the evidence, shall we?” He holds up his hand to start ticking off fingers. “You stared at him as soon as he walked in the door.” Harry nods once. No point in denying it. “You didn’t stop until he left.” A bit of an exaggeration. But not much of one. “You were _abysmally_ slow tonight, even for you, because whatever was going on between the two of you had you distracted.” Guilty. “You drew him a bloody cartoon--yes, I saw that--and you sniffed his fucking scarf after he left. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t taken it upstairs to--”

“I called him _Draco,_ ” Harry groans. He rests his elbows on the bar and covers his face with his hands. “How, Lee? How? How did I end up fancying Malfoy? I don’t even know him, and what I used to know--”

“He’s fit.” Lee shrugs. “I’ll give you that. So you hit it off. Flirted a little. S’not a crime. Even if it is the ferret. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing, I guess. I hope? It just caught me off guard. I haven’t . . .” He pauses to look at Lee, who nods him on. All right, he needs to admit it to someone and it might as well be Lee, who’s become a closer friend than Ron in some ways. “It’s er, hard to admit but, I haven’t fancied anyone in ages. Years, if I’m honest. Maybe not even since . . . Ginny.”

“All right,” Lee says slowly. “So you’re particular.”

“Am I, though?” Harry almost laughs. “Because fancying Malfoy doesn’t seem to fit with that idea.”

“I dunno. What’s that saying? The heart wants what it wants, yeah?”

“Somehow that’s not very useful right now.”

What _does_ his heart want? That’s the other thing. His “new” heart is doing just fine physically, but the whole idea still sends him into a panic sometimes. He’s made some bad decisions in his life, in the war, before the war, and for a long time he blamed himself indirectly for a lot of people’s deaths. But at least he didn’t benefit from their dying. At least in those cases, fate didn’t make a choice between him and someone else. He can’t stop thinking that fate chose wrong. Working in a pub and feeling sorry for himself isn’t exactly doing justice to person whose heart he inherited. Sometimes he wishes he could give it back. And he still hasn’t gotten around to writing that fucking letter.

“You’ve gone quiet. Was it the heart thing I said?”

“No,” Harry lies.

“Because you know that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m just saying. Maybe there’s a reason you like Malfoy all of a sudden.”

Harry considers it. A reason? Other than his pert arse, warm smile, swishy hair . . . His cheeks heat even though he hasn’t said any of that out loud.

“You’re not actually telling me to . . . go for it?”

“Not telling you anything, just giving you options. Life is too short, you know? And if this is the first time you’ve felt something for someone, maybe you should take it as a sign.”

“A sign,” Harry scoffs. “Had enough of those in this life, haven’t I?”

“Haven’t we all.” Lee slaps a hand to Harry’s shoulder and slides off the stool. “You finish up. I’m turning in. I think you owe me for the piss poor work you put out there today.”

“Fair,” says Harry. He moves on to the windows even as he tells himself to stop looking outside.

A sign? Merlin help him.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco doesn’t make it home before receiving another owl--a real one this time.

_How’s the “urgent” situation?_

Draco crumples the note and tosses it into the nearest bin. If Blaise didn’t want him to scarper, he shouldn’t have set him up with that wet rag of a human being. If he doesn’t date for another ten years, he’ll know where to lay the blame.

Ten years. Twenty years. A lifetime. What does it matter?

He was a fool to think he could jump back into the dating pool. He was never in the dating pool to begin with. Astoria found him, loved him, kept him. She even liked to joke that he was the first of her rescues.

He doesn’t know how to do dates, how to do _casual_. When has he ever done anything casually?

He meanders down the street on his way home, feeling aimless. He could Apparate, but he’s in no hurry to get there. Another empty night. He could work, but he’s not in the mood.  

He tilts his face up to the sky and closes his eyes.

_Stori, what the fuck am I supposed to do?_

Blaise was right about one thing: she would hate to see him like this. Of course she can’t hear or see him; he’s never put stock in that idea. But he talks to her anyway sometimes. Even if every last bit of her is gone from this earth, it still feels right to say her name, call her pet or Stori or darling, even if it’s just in his head.

_Darling, I miss you._

Tomorrow will be the day. It will have actually been a year. Tonight is the one-year anniversary of the last night they spent together. Tomorrow night will be the one-year anniversary of the first night he spent without her.

Blaise means well. He hoped to distract Draco from all of that, of course, knowing Draco would decline an offer from him to stay the night or go out with just the two of them. Blaise knows how stubborn he is and how much he’s still hurting, the intuitive bastard. But even Blaise isn’t clever or caring or charming enough to cheat grief out of its due.

Not even Harry Potter could accomplish that, Draco muses, the thought taking him by surprise.

He slumps against a lamppost and takes in the stillness of the night around him, mulling over the absurdity of the whole evening.

_Yes, that’s right, love. I ran into Harry Potter tonight. Would you believe it was the best part of my evening? I’m as shocked as you are._

She wouldn’t have been shocked, though, not really. Once he’d made the grave mistake of comparing her eyes to his--he was half drunk and very chatty and said something about them being such different shades of green--and she’d pounced on the admission like Cupcake on a treat.

“How do you know so much about Potter’s eyes, hmm?” Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight filling their bedroom. “Is there something I should be aware of?”

He’d denied it of course--until he was blue in face--but she wouldn’t hear it. Eventually he had to admit that Potter was not entirely lacking in attractive qualities and that, perhaps, if things had been different--wildly and almost unimaginably different--he might have been interested in pursuing something there.

“I knew it!” she’d cried triumphantly. And he’d let her. Because it didn’t matter. And it was sort of funny and . . . ironic, perhaps? That the boy he spent so much time cultivating a hatred for was someone he might have had a crush on under the right circumstances.  

“Good thing I scooped you up when I did then,” she’d teased, “before the news broke about him being into blokes, eh?”

“Right, good thing for _you_ ,” he had joked back. “ _I_ could be shagging the Saviour right now. You and his undisclosed sexuality were the only things standing in my way,” he added wryly.

He shakes his head now, as if to blur the memory.

Shagging Harry Potter. What an idea.

_He looked good, though, darling. You would have said the same._

Draco doesn’t do casual, but if he _did_ . . . he doesn’t dare finish the thought. What gave Potter the right to grow into himself so well, to smile crookedly in Draco’s direction, to call him _Draco_? It’s most unsettling.

The wind picks up and sends a chill through him. He reaches up instinctively to tighten the scarf around his neck--and finds it gone.

“Fuck!” he says aloud. Where is it? He looks around wildly before taking a deep breath and telling himself not to panic. He can’t have dropped it; he would have noticed. Did someone take it? No. It has to be back at the pub, and now he’s wasted Merlin knows how much time walking around without it.  Why didn’t he just Apparate home? Why did he insist on wandering like a pathetic idiot who can’t face his own front door?

He Apparates to the park directly across from Lee’s and sees the place has gone dark already. He must have been out walking even longer than he thought. Bugger, if it’s closed, he won’t even know if it’s still there or not. He runs across the street and pulls on the door handle, rattling the glass. Locked.

He peers inside. A few lights are still on, but it’s too dim to see anything properly. Should he risk knocking? Waking up Lee, who purportedly lives upstairs?

It’s just a scarf.

But it isn’t.

It was hers, her favourite, and wearing it makes him feel--he doesn’t want to explain.

Sod it. He knocks anyway. It’s an expensive cashmere scarf and someone might be only too happy to walk away with it. He can’t wait until tomorrow. He shouldn’t have hung it up in the first place. He wasn’t thinking, in too much of a rush when he did that, instead of shrinking it into his pocket like he otherwise does.

“Hello?” he calls. No answer. “Pardon me, hello?” He bangs on the glass with his fists, feeling somewhat ridiculous.

Finally, a light flicks on somewhere in the corner of the place, softly illuminating a flight of stairs beside the bar. The shadow of a man in jogging bottoms appears and makes its way down.

Draco sighs in relief and takes a step back. Lee is a good sort, or so he’s heard. He’ll take the piss, sure, but Draco is confident he’ll let him in and look around if he gets a chance to explain.

The man draws closer, and then it’s too late for Draco to turn around. And he might have, if he’d had that chance, because it’s not Lee. It’s Potter, looking groggy and dishevelled and notably topless. Potter doesn’t seem to register who Draco is, carelessly flicking his wand towards the door, unhinging the lock.

“All right, all right, keep your shirt on,” Draco hears him grumble, which is an interesting choice of words, considering.

Draco tugs at his sleeves and waits for Potter to get to the door. Finally, it swings open.

“Look, you’re either really late or really ear--Oh.”

Potter’s mouth drops open, reminding Draco of the way Astoria used to quote her favourite Muggle film whenever someone wore that expression. He’s half tempted to say, “Close your mouth, Potter. We are not a codfish.”

But he decides to wait for Potter’s mouth to catch up with his brain instead.

“Malfoy?”

“Yes,” is all Draco can manage at first, looking anywhere other than Potter’s bare pectorals, even as they’re practically staring him in the face, since Potter is a step above him on the threshold.

“It’s um, we’re closed?” Potter says thickly. “Er, I mean . . .” he lifts a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. “Sorry. Just woke up.” He gives his head a quick shake, squints at Draco, lets out a breath, which smells a little bit like beer, and none of this should endear him to Draco, but somehow . . . “Oh, right!” he says suddenly. “Your scarf.”

Draco balks. “How did you know?”

“Er, I guessed.” Potter palms the back of his neck and steps aside. “Come on in.”  

“Right,” Draco says hesitantly, and steps over the threshold. “Thank you. I apologise  for coming by so late. I was . . . in the neighbourhood.”

“At two a.m.?” Potter’s voice is still raspy from sleep. It’s distracting.

“Does it matter?” Draco snaps.

“No, of course not,” Potter replies. “Just--” he throws his hands out vaguely. “Anyway. I put it behind the counter. I found it over there on the hook where you left it, but didn’t want to risk someone taking it.” Potter turns on a few more lights, giving the entryway an amber glow, and ducks back behind the bar to retrieve the scarf. Draco follows him.  

The fact that Potter not only noticed Draco’s scarf, that it was his, and where he put it, is familiar in a strangely comforting way.

“Still spying on me after all these years, Potter?” he says to Potter’s taut back, hoping he sounds snide instead of curious. It feels so odd to be noticing things like the shape of a man’s back on the one-year anniversary of his wife’s death. But he can’t seem to stop himself from doing it.

Potter hesitates like he’s weighing his options before turning around, shrugging and saying “Old habits,” with a roguish smirk.

Draco winces at the sight of the scarf balled up in Potter’s careless hand. “Well,” he says briskly, steeling himself. “I suppose I should be grateful in this case.” He stares briefly into the intense green eyes before him. One should make eye contact when thanking someone else, after all. It’s only good manners. “Thank you for keeping it for me.”

Potter meets his gaze, then looks away. “Must be important to you to come back for it at this hour,” he says casually, then stretches the hand holding the scarf out in Draco’s general direction.

This is where he should reiterate that he was merely in the neighbourhood, merely picking up something that belongs to him, and take the scarf and fold it into his arms like a normal person collecting a belonging. But he doesn’t have the energy to keep up the facade. Not tonight.

Tonight, he can’t find it in him to care how pathetic he must seem. So instead, he takes the scarf and wraps it twice around himself without a second thought, closing his eyes and allowing the soft fabric to warm his nose so he can breathe in its scent. It calms him instantly.

He feels Potter’s eyes on him. “It was hers,” he says simply, raising his chin, annoyed at the tremble in his voice on the last word.  

“Astoria’s.” Potter says, his expression unreadable. Not pity, or polite sympathy. Something different. Something almost . . . knowing.

Draco nods once. “It’s silly and sentimental, I know. It doesn’t . . .” He can’t finish the thought.

“Doesn’t what?” Potter prods carefully.

Heaving a sigh, Draco spills the next sentence out in a rush. “Doesn’t even smell like her anymore, all right?” he snaps. “I don’t know why I’m so attached to it, so you needn’t ask.” Blood rushes to his head at having said something so raw and personal out loud.

Potter’s face softens. “I have Sirius’s leather jacket,” he says quietly. “I know it’s not the same,” he’s quick to add. “Not like losing a . . . a partner. But I just mean . . . not to make it about me--Fuck,” he whispers to himself before trying again. “I just mean . . . I know that things can be important. I’m glad you got it back.”

A lump forms in Draco’s throat. It happens a lot, but especially when someone is unexpectedly kind or thoughtful, and even more so when it involves Astoria. He tries to swallow it. He’s dangerously close to breaking right now.

As if sensing how close Draco is to the brink, Potter turns abruptly again to bring down two tumblers from the top shelf.

“Stay for drink?” he offers. “On the house.” He looks downright ridiculous, topless behind the bar, questioning eyebrow raised, all innocence. “And, er, don’t worry, I’ll get properly dressed,” he adds, blushing, and apparently reading Draco’s mind. He reaches underneath the bar and pulls on a red t-shirt with Lee’s logo on it, not waiting for Draco to reply.  

“See?” He holds out his hands and grins like a toddler who dressed themself for the first time.

Draco stifles a laugh. A small part of him observes that Potter looks nearly as delectable in the paper-thin t-shirt as he did without it, but that’s neither here nor there.

“That qualifies as properly dressed in this establishment?” he sneers, half-hearted.  

“Gerard would be appalled, wouldn’t he?”

“Fuck Gerard,” Draco says without thinking.

“No, thank you.”

They both shudder and laugh awkwardly. And somehow, the exchange has pulled him back from the edge. Potter to his rescue. Again. It simply won’t do.

“I don’t suppose you could make a drinkable old fashioned?” Leave it to Draco to say the most pretentious thing possible when pressed. He is a Malfoy, after all.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Potters lips curve upward as he scrounges around for the proper ingredients, then promptly gives up. “Er . . . what’s in that again?”

Draco rolls his eyes and exhales dramatically, enjoying himself.

“Sugar. Muddled with bitters. Doused in whiskey, with an orange twist.”

“Are you describing a drink or your personality?” Potter quips.

“Ah, wit,” Draco counters. “How unexpected. Really,” he sniffs in disapproval, “why don’t I just take over?” Draco doesn’t know what’s come over him, but the sudden urge to be _doing_ instead of talking is quite strong. It’s like he’s afraid of when they will inevitably stop talking, when he’ll have to go home alone, and his hands are trying to distract him from that thought.

“Be my guest.” Potter shoves over, his expression a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

“Shall I mix one for you as well?”

“Never had one. But all right, yeah. Why not? Make it a double.”

“Bloody Gryffindor,” Draco sighs, half to himself, something like fondness creeping into his voice.

Oh, dear.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Harry watches in silence as Malfoy’s deft, slender fingers mix the drinks and place a curled bit of orange peel on the rim of each glass, just so. There’s an art to it that Harry certainly hasn’t mastered in his short time here. Then again, he’s never needed to. Gin and tonic with clumsy wedge of lime is about as posh as their usual clientele requires.

Malfoy slides Harry’s drink towards him. They’re side by side now, seated on their own stools, and it occurs to Harry that this is probably the closest they’ve ever been to each other without physically fighting. “Don’t down it all in one go,” Draco warns. “It’s meant to be savoured.”

Harry can’t help grinning at the fact that Malfoy cares enough to give instructions for drinking a cocktail. He takes a cautious sip. It’s strong, which he should have suspected, it being almost entirely made up of alcohol. Which means, according to his Healer, that he shouldn’t even be drinking it. He decides to worry about that later and focus on the the pleasant aftertaste it leaves on his tongue. “Not bad,” he offers.

“High praise,” Malfoy huffs, bringing his own glass to his lips and taking a less than modest swig. The glass presses against the scarf under his chin, and Harry finds himself wishing the scarf weren’t there, that his view of Malfoy’s neck and Adam’s apple were not obscured at all. He looks away before he’s caught staring.

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“It’s been a year, if you must know,” Malfoy says into his drink.

Harry doesn’t recall asking, but he’ll listen. He wants to listen, and he’s afraid to do anything more than nod, so as not to disturb whatever hangs in the balance here.

Malfoy puts his glass down and drops his shoulders, resting his elbows on the bar top. “A year exactly, since Astoria died.” His cloudy grey eyes meet Harry’s for a moment. “I know you’re probably wondering what in Circe’s name I’m still doing here, with _you_ of all people, just as I’m wondering why the Saviour is humouring my existence.”

“I--” Harry means to object, and he would, if he knew what to say.

“But the truth is--and I know how you Gryffindors prize honesty--”

(That’s Hufflepuffs, Harry thinks, but disregards the error.)

“--the truth is I’d rather be anywhere than at home without her right now.”

He purses his lips and looks back at Harry, eyes flashing and jaw set in defiance.

Or, it’s meant to be defiance, and the words were perhaps meant to sound like an insult. But Harry’s only seen Malfoy’s face look like that once before, years ago, when so many mistakes were made. Open. Vulnerable. Afraid.

And _gods._ So incredibly sad. It’s heartbreaking. It feels almost like a gift, that he’s seeing Malfoy like this, and he doesn’t know how to receive it. And then there’s the uncomfortable knowledge that Malfoy has loved, and deeply so. Perhaps in a way that Harry never has, or never will.

“You really loved her, didn’t you?”

The words tumble out before he can stop them, and he knows immediately they were the wrong ones.

Malfoy’s expression shifts to one Harry is much more familiar with. His eyes narrow and his mouth twists in disgust.

“Tell me, Potter, which is more shocking to you: That someone cared for me or that I cared for someone other than myself?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

But how _did_ he mean it?

“Please, spare me,” Malfoy snaps. “I know exactly how you meant it. And you know what the worst thing is? I can’t even blame you for it. Nobody was more shocked that I was, I can assure you. I was ready to live a solitary, scraping life in penance for every wrong choice I’ve ever made. And the world was ready to let me.”

“Please, Malfoy, I’m sorry--”

“And then she came along and--” he chokes and sputters. “Oh, gods, I _never_ deserved her, but don’t worry, I’m paying for it now, aren’t I?”

He gets up and starts buttoning his coat.

Shit, shit, shit, this has gone completely off the rails and Harry is useless to fix it. But he has to try.

“Listen, Draco--” Harry grabs his wrist and sees the righteous indignation on his face.

“Unhand me, you idiot.” So Harry does, reluctantly.

“Please listen. I only meant that--I never expected--your choices. Fuck. We were kids! All of us!”

“I knew what I was doing, and so did you.”

“But you’re sorry,” Harry says softly.

Malfoy sighs deeply. “Yes. So?”

“And so am I.”

“ _Don’t_ patronise me.”

“I’m not. And I don’t blame you either. Not anymore.”

“You don’t blame me.” Malfoy laughs a hollow laugh and shakes his head slowly. “I never expected to hear you say that.”

“I hated you for a long time,” he says honestly, talking through his thought process as it happens. “And you hated me back.”

Malfoy doesn’t argue. But his muscles have relaxed again, and he’s still sitting down, so thank Merlin for small mercies.

“And then . . . it’s strange.” Harry leans back and sighs. “The dust settled. Life went on. I just wanted to forget it all. We were kids. I know I keep saying that, but sometimes I can’t get over it. I mean, can you? The fucking war messed up an entire generation of _kids_ , you know? I didn’t forgive you, exactly. I guess I just decided it wasn’t worth it. Holding a grudge. Seemed kind of pointless.”

“Inspiring,” Malfoy interjects drily. “Is that taken directly from one of the speeches you gave at the Ministry?”

“I don’t do that anymore. Never liked it, actually.”

“Hm. The truth comes out.” He shakes his drink.

“And the reason I said that about Astoria . . .” Malfoy eyes him warily, which Harry takes to mean he has to be very, _very_ careful in how he says what he means to say next. “I guess I _was_ surprised, not so much that someone could love you . . .” Oh, Godric, his entire face is on fire after saying that. This is incredibly awkward, but he perseveres anyway. “ . . . or that you could love them, but because . . . because I’ve never experienced that.” He can’t bear to make eye contact anymore after admitting that, but now it’s out there.

“What.” The word is sharp and incredulous.

“Yep. It’s true.”

“You can’t be serious. Tell me you’re not trying to make _me_ feel sorry for _you._ Harry Potter--Saviour of the World, adored by all, friends who would do anything for him--”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Harry cuts him off, his temper rising. “I’m talking about what you just described--what you miss. You’re going home alone, to no one, yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco says, uncertain.

“Well, I’ve _always_ gone home to no one. Except for when I was at Hogwarts, that’s been my life. I lived with an Aunt and Uncle who barely acknowledged my existence, I went to Hogwarts where I was allowed to feel like a human for once _except_ for the times I was supposed to be fighting a homicidal blood purist, and then--and then! It was all over. My two best friends got married. Everyone carried their own grief. Mine wasn’t any more special than anyone else’s. Ginny and I tried to pick things up after everything but that was a _farce_ and we both knew it. So I went back to doing the only thing I’m supposedly good at, and yeah, I went back to an empty flat after every day, just like the one you’re going home to tonight. And you come in here and you fucking inhale that scarf--and the way you talk about her--the way you _look_ when you say her name--” He takes a deep breath and finally chances a glance at Malfoy, whose eyes are wide and whose mouth is slightly open, like he’s not sure what he’s seeing. “--Maybe I never expected to feel jealous of you, but I am. Because even though you think you have nothing, at least you have _that._ ”

Malfoys swallows audibly. “Oh.”

Harry panics in the brief silence that follows. Did he really just admit that he was jealous of Malfoy for having a dead wife? Is that really how his brain works?

“I’m sorry,” he says hastily. “That was out of line. I didn’t mean to take over whatever this night means to you and I--”

“It’s fine,” Malfoy says tersely. “I shouldn’t have been so defensive.”

“No, you were right.”

“Well, so were you. It won’t surprise you to know I haven’t been the most sympathetic to your . . . perspective over the years.”

“No, that is definitely _not_ a surprise,” Harry admits, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“And yet, here we are.”

“Yeah . . .”

_Here we are. Me saying all the wrong things and still managing to notice the way your lick your bottom lip after you sip your drink._

_“Y_ ou know,” Harry muses, prying his eyes away from Malfoy’s mouth, “I don’t think I’ve ever said any of that out loud to anyone else. How strange is that?”

“It’s preposterous,” Malfoy agrees. “Horrific, even.” There’s a hint of a smile there, Harry can see it if he squints. “Does this mean we’re some sort of . . . friends?”

“Merlin help us,” Harry smirks. “I hope not. Everything about today was weird, wasn’t it?”

“How so?” Malfoy asks archly.

“You and me. Running into each other. Getting along.”

“Ah, that. Yes, that was unsettling.”

“Right?”

“But you know how the saying goes. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

_Friend. Hmm._

“The enemy in this case being . . . Gerard.” Harry works to keep a straight face.

“Correct.”

“As opposed to, oh, I don’t know, Voldemort?”

“If we’re splitting hairs.”

“Yeah, I’d say we are,” he laughs.

“He was my enemy too, you know, by the end.” Malfoy says, his expression turning dark again.

“I know,” Harry says quickly, desperate to keep the conversation from going further in that direction. “But we weren’t friends because of it.”

“No,” Malfoy concedes, downing the rest of his drink. “And I’m not sure we are now, if I consider that bit of sabotage on your end this afternoon.”

“Sabotage?” Oh, dear, this is fun.

“Yes, _sabotage_. Don’t look so innocent. That drawing you did was hardly fair.”

Harry bites his lip in an effort to disguise how pleased he is.

Malfoy’s lip curls. It’s rather fetching. Oh, good Godric, it’s _really_ fetching.  

“Fair? This from a Slytherin?”

“Yes! We’re not unfair, Potter. We’re _cunning_. There’s a difference.”

“I did what you asked, didn’t I?”

“Prat,” Malfoy mutters in response, but there’s no venom in it.

“Admit it: it was hilarious.”

“I will do no such thing.” But the grin he’s trying to hide behind his wrist says otherwise.

“Anyway . . .” Harry trails off, momentarily distracted by the flush of Malfoy’s cheeks in the dim light. It must be the alcohol. Oh, right, the alcohol he’s not supposed to be drinking.

“Er, I shouldn’t finish this,” he mutters sheepishly, tapping his glass with his thumb. “Had a bit of a health scare a while back. Healer’s orders.”  

He stops himself from mentioning his heart attack and subsequent transplant. He never likes talking about it. It’s not that he’s embarrassed or shy about it. It’s just uncomfortable.  

“A _health_ scare?” Malfoy straightens. “Haven’t you cheated death numerous times already?”

“Yeah,” Harry admits, growing more uncomfortable. “This was something different. It’s hard to explain. Maybe another time.”

“All right.” To his surprise, Malfoy doesn’t press the matter. “I see. The ‘make it a double’ request was all bravado, then?”

“Sometimes I forget. In the moment,” Harry says, immediately cursing himself for using such a cliche phrase as “in the moment” while chatting with Draco Malfoy. Merlin.

“Right.” Malfoy pauses and looks around before standing up. “Well, I really must be going. Cupcake will be beside herself.”

“Who?” Harry sputters.

“My crup,” he explains with a vague wave of his hand. “She despises me, but I’m all she has. And vice versa. In any case,” he clears his throat, “you need your rest. That is . . . I can’t avoid home forever. So thank you again. For the scarf. And this,” he lifts his empty glass.

“You’re welcome, Draco.” Harry says, pulse ringing in his ears. “I can call you that, right?”

_I  hope so, as I can’t seem to help doing so at inopportune times._

“Of course,” Malfoy replies stiffly, eyes wide.

“Then--” Harry throws out an awkward hand. “Goodnight, Draco.”

Too late to consider whether this sort of occasion calls for a handshake, or any physical contact at all. With anyone else he cares about it would call for a hug, and that’s out of the question. The seconds tick by as his hand hovers in the air. He’s about to drop it when Malfoy-- _Draco--_ takes it and shakes it once, firm and quick, like it might burn him if he held on a second longer.

“Goodnight. Harry.” He tosses his hair from his eyes, adjusts his scarf, and turns up the collar of his coat before walking back into the cold.

Harry rests his head on the bar and whimpers.

  


***

  


“Oh, no, Potter, you _didn’t_.”

Harry wakes with a crick in his neck and a dull throbbing in his joints. He’s still downstairs, slumped over a table and Lee is standing over him, his face a mixture of pity and disgust.

“Tell me you didn’t fall asleep waiting for the ferret to come and claim his scarf. You didn’t do that, right?”

Harry rubs his eyes and rolls his shoulders.

“No, Lee, I didn’t do that.”

“Thank Merlin.”

“I fell asleep _after_ he came by, because I had a lot of thinking to do.”

“What?” Lee slaps his hand on the table, dangerously close to where Harry’s head just was.

“You heard me.”

“Helga’s fanny, it’s worse than I thought.”

“Much worse,” Harry croaks.

“Did you shag him?”

“No! Lee, what potions are you on? Of course I didn’t _shag_ him.” Though he can’t say he hasn’t thought about it. More than once.

“It’s not a crazy question. Why not?”

“Oh, for--he’s still grieving his wife, for starters.”

And Harry’s still processing how he feels about that.

“Hmm.” Lee takes a step back and taps his chin. “That would put a damper on things,” he concedes. “Not quite conducive to a ‘wham-bam-thank-you-sam’ is it?”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“All right, so . . . what. You talked about . . . feelings?”

“Sort of.”

“And had a few drinks, I see?”

“One drink. I didn’t finish mine.”

“Good. At least we don’t need to have that chat.”

“We don’t need to have any chat. I need to shower and eat something.”

“Details, details.”

“What time is it?”

“Half nine. You’ve loads of time to talk to me about your crisis and then get ready to face the day.”

“Who’s having a crisis?”

“You are. Just look at yourself. I should owl Ron.”

Harry’s head snaps up properly. “Fuck, no, please don’t do that.”

“No?”

“No. I have no idea how to talk to him about this.”

“About what, exactly?”

“I. . .” He trails off and takes a breath. “I really like him.”

“Malfoy? Yes, you’ve said.”

“Yes, well, I say a lot of things, apparently. Like telling him I’m jealous that his wife died. Or something. Fucking _hell_ , what was I thinking?”

Lee shakes his head. “You weren’t. It’s not your strong point when you are experiencing feelings.”

“Shut up.”

“So, what d’you like about him, anyway? Aside from how his pointy arse and shiny hair make you hard.”

“You are the actual worst.”

Lee takes a mocking bow. “I try.”

“You really want to know?”

“I asked.”

“It’s . . . he’s still sort of a prat but in, like, a fun way?”

Lee eyes him doubtfully.

“And he’s sorry for the things he’s done--”

“ _All_ of them?”

“Well it’s not like we went through a list."

“Pity,” Lee snorts.

“Aren’t you the one who says life is too short for that bollocks?”

“Yes, but I’m a complicated man. Besides, serving people in my pub is one thing. Shagging them is another.”

“Nobody is shagging anyone!”

“Yet.”

Harry rolls his eyes and tries again to put his thoughts into words that make sense.

“Look, I enjoyed talking to him. We have this sort of rhythm or something. And he’s so . . . honest. I didn’t see that coming. Actually--” he pauses. “This will probably sound bad.”

“Good thing it’s just us, then. Continue.”

“There was something in the way he talked about her.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah. I don’t know . . .”  He remembers Draco with the scarf, the way his voice softened every time he spoke about Astoria, the pain in his eyes.  “I swear it’s not like, a saviour complex or anything, but just seeing how her death affected him, how much he must have loved her . . .”

Lee looks thoughtful.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Just listening. Being a mate.”

“Well, I wish you would say something because you’re making me feel weird.”

“Don’t feel weird. Makes a lot of sense to me. You think he’s fit. He shows he’s changed. He shares his feelings, which are sad and lonely. You’re sad and lonely too. Deep calls to deep etcetera, etcetera, and--” he claps his hands together “--Bingo bango.”

“You should write romance novels,” Harry mutters.

“I agree, my talents are wasted here. But speaking of here, we both need to get started.”

“Yeah, I know.” Harry rises to his feet, already wistful for what a nice warm shower will do for his stiff muscles.

“But before we do--”

“What now?” Harry groans.

“Have you written the letter yet?” Lee has his most patronising smile plastered across his face.

Harry tenses. “Right, so . . . the thing about that is . . .”

“That’s a no.”

“Technically, yeah, no, but I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Harry, you need to get that off your chest. Soon. _Especially_ before considering a relationship. I know the perfectionist in you thinks you it will never be good enough--”

“--because it won’t.”

“But something is better than nothing. They deserve to hear from you, and you deserve to say it.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Easy for Lee to say. He doesn’t have a dead person’s heart beating inside him.

“If you want me to sit down with you and get it started . . .”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’ll get to it this week.” He will. He’ll do it. He just needs to be in the right mood, with enough time.

“That’s what you said last week.”

“Last week was busy.”

“So was the week before.”

“Leave off, would you?” Honestly, the man could stand to mind his own business once in a while.  

“All right, how about this: I’ll give you today off if you promise me you’ll do it. _Today_. Then you could also take Teddy to lunch, like you wanted to last week when we were swamped.”

“What are you--intercepting my owls?”

“We share a flat, Harry. I notice things.”

“Ugh. I give up. Fine. I’ll do it today.”

“ _And_ send it off today.”

“What? No.”

“You’ll tear it up tomorrow otherwise. I know you. Write it. Send it. Move on. Shag Malfoy.”

Harry levitates a coaster and sends it spinning directly into Lee’s shoulder.

“Oi! th’ fuck! That hurt.”

“Good. Now leave me alone to write my letter.”


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Draco wakes up the next day, it’s almost noon, and Cupcake has pissed all over the rug.

“Suppose I deserved that,” he says to no one in particular, and casts a clumsy _Scourgify_.  

An unseasonably bright sun peaks in through the window, on today of all days. The day the world lost her.

He hears her voice in his head as clearly as if it were yesterday.

“With one more year of fundraising . . .”

And here he is, one year later, with precious little to show for it.

Blaise would say he’s made great strides, especially considering how many sponsors begged off their commitments after the Thestral cause lost its pretty, uncontroversial face. But great strides are not good enough.

He’ll see the Thestral habitat finished if it kills him, and the way things are looking, it just might.

He dresses carefully for the meeting with the PRAMB board members scheduled for this afternoon--navy-blue robes atop a white collared shirt, with modest grey chinos. It’s unlikely to do any good, he muses as he searches for the right tie, then takes a moment to remind his brain in no uncertain terms that now is _not_ the time to go over the events of last night.

No, it is most certainly _not_ wise to revisit the way Harry’s-- _not_ the time to refer to him as Harry--the way each of Potter’s lopsided grins made his throat dry, or the way his blood pressure spiked when Potter grabbed his wrist, or the way his insides went positively gooey at Potter’s admission that he’s never been in love (that is what he was getting at, right?), or even the swoop of irrational fear he felt at Potter’s mention of his mysterious medical condition.

None of that.

Today, he has to focus on other things. Astoria deserves that much.

He slides a silver and navy pinstripe tie from its hook and wraps it around his neck, feeling the loss of the fingers that used to tie it perfectly.

 _Wish me luck, darling. I’ll need it._  

There’s a staccato tap-tap-tap at the door, odd for this time of day. He gives himself another glance in the mirror before going to check.

The great grey owl on his front porch is an imposing figure. It eyes him with a look that appears both impatient and grave. There’s a St Mungo’s tag on its left leg, and a sickly pink envelope tied to the other. Cupcake cowers behind him as he undoes the twine, and rightly so. This owl would likely finish her in one swallow.   

Once he’s finished, the owl doesn’t wait for a pat on the head or a treat. It simply nods once and swoops away, headed somewhere else important, no doubt.

Why would St Mungo’s be contacting him today? Is a one-year bereavement card something they do?

He flips the envelope over and reads the typed font: DONOR LIAISON.

Donor Liaison. The words are familiar but he has to think back to remind himself what they mean. There had been forms, so many forms to sign, and none of them had mattered much at the time.

The Healer had said something about Astoria’s wishes, and that’s all he had needed to hear. But this--what is this, exactly? He’s afraid to open it.

After the meeting. The meeting is too important for him to be distracted by whatever is in that envelope. He tucks it inside the breast pocket of his robes and steps into the Floo.

 

***

 

The makeshift office on the sanctuary grounds is cool and drafty. A handful of stodgy witches and wizards sit at the table looking bored, as well as a couple of foremen who’ve been working the job. Draco has the distinct impression that they’re all waiting for him to give up. Well, they’re all going to be disappointed.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for meeting with me today.” He forces a smile, but no one returns it. “As you are all aware, we are behind schedule on the Thestral habitat. While it’s true that our budget has fallen short of projections, there are still some things we can address now, in order to move forward.”

There are a few uncomfortable murmurs in the room.

“Kingsbury,” Draco continues, undeterred. “The extension charms on the south wing were slated to be reinforced last month. Where are we today?”

The jovial wizard, pushing fifty, is likely the only one cares even half as much as Draco about this project, but calling him competent would be generous.

“Er, we’re waiting on the permits to be approved,” he says, and laughs nervously.

“What? Why? My wife had those permits in place over two years ago!”

_Breathe, Draco, breathe. Don’t give anyone in this room cause to doubt your composure or professionalism._

“Yes, well, that’s the problem, you see--they’ve expired.”

“Expired! They weren’t supposed to expire for another three years!”

“Not if you don’t have the foundation finished before two years is up, and we didn’t, so we had to re-apply.”

“Bloody hell, what a nightmare.” Draco’s face falls into his hands, and he wishes it could stay here for the remainder of the day. He looks up. “What about willows? They’re still going to be planted on the east side of the stream, right?”

“Er, the rest of the trustees decided on transfigured fir trees instead.”

“Transf--fuck! Who the hell signed off on transfigured trees? This is not a nursery, it’s a habitat!”

“Mr. Malfoy, get ahold of yourself,” warns Mr. Ainsworth, arguably the most influential wizard in the room. He rises to his feet, and Draco does not like where this meeting is headed.

“It’s time to face facts, Draco. The original plans are simply not viable anymore. Astoria was a visionary, and we all loved her--”

“--Don’t you _dare_ \--”

“--I’m afraid I must. We’ve humoured you long enough. Admit when you’re beaten, won’t you? I’ve already spoken with a sanctuary in America that’s willing to take the Thestrals off our hands, so that we can better use the remaining funds for the creatures that will truly benefit from the money.”

“You mean benefit _you_ more,” Draco hisses. “You mean to turn PRAMB into a petting zoo that sells ice creams to snot-nosed brats and holds galas every quarter. You’ve no interest in helping creatures that actually need it!”

“My, my, such accusations!” Ainsworth chuckles. “We’re all on the same side. Someone has to be the pragmatist here. I say we reconvene in three weeks and vote on the matter. And if you can’t raise the funds you need to get this project off the ground by then, I’m afraid we will have to vote with our pocketbooks instead of our hearts.”

“Three _weeks_?” Draco cries.

With that, Ainsworth steps out from the table and pushes in his chair, which prompts a chorus of squeaking chairs as the rest of the people rise to their feet. He says a hasty “good day” to Draco, who watches in despair as they all file out behind him. Kingsbury shoots him an apologetic glance on the way. 

_I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry._

 

_***_

 

The Thestrals catch his scent as he approaches them. For a while after Astoria died, they would react with the same enthusiasm as when she was alive, assuming that if he was near, she would not be far behind. But now they’ve come to know it’s just him.

Still, he can tell they’re happy enough to see a familiar face. They preen and whinny softly. He removes his robes and tie, folds and places them on a bench outside the enclosure before rolling up his sleeves and unlocking the gate.

They wander over, all seven of them--three males and four females, nudging each other out of the way.

They still make him a little nervous, truth be told, but damn if he’ll let anyone know.

“Wish I had good news, ladies and gents,” he sighs, and rummages in his pocket for the shrunken bag of mice. He murmurs an _Engorgio_ and thrusts the bag out as far in front of himself as possible. Each Thestral takes their share in turn. Astoria had trained them remarkably well.

“Yes, well, now that you’re stuffing yourselves, I might as well tell you that you’re not long for Britain. America bound, they tell me.”

A male Thestral snorts, spraying Draco in the face.

“Really!” He takes a deep breath and wipes it with his sleeve, smirking at himself and wondering momentarily at what his mother would say. “I quite agree, but there’s nothing to be done. Officially, we’ve three weeks before they vote, but everyone knows that’s just a formality. Couldn’t pull it off. Don’t look so surprised.”

He pats a female on the ridge of her neck, and she nudges his shoulder.

“Easy now, there, there Helena.”

“Whooooooa,” a child’s awestruck voice says behind him. He turns to see Potter standing outside the gate, a purple-coiffed Teddy Lupin beside him.


	10. Chapter 10

“Are you petting a _real life_ Thestral?” Teddy asks Draco, unable to contain his excitement.

“Hi Draco, I didn’t know you worked here,” Harry says, hoping Draco doesn’t ask how long they’ve been standing there watching him.

It’s only half true, him not knowing. He thought Draco might be here in some capacity. Teddy’s been asking to visit the PRAMB sanctuary for months. It’s not really Harry’s thing; he much prefers a game of Quidditch or going out for ice cream, but Lee had casually mentioned to him before they left for lunch that PRAMB had been founded and sustained by Astoria Malfoy. So, no, he hadn’t known Draco would be here, but he’d hoped.

And now here Draco is, in the flesh, not twelve hours after he left the pub last night, speaking softly to magical creatures, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, collar open at the throat, and hair tossed by the wind. It wasn’t a long walk to get here, but for some reason, Harry’s out of breath.

“Yes,” Draco says to Teddy, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “Her name is Helena.” He looks at Harry. “Can he . . .?”

“No,” Harry says, taking Draco’s meaning immediately. “He can’t see them. But he’s seen a lot drawings, and I’ve told him about them.”

“Yeah!” Teddy pipes up. “Harry says it’s bollocks that I can’t see them, because being an orphan should come with perks.”

A laugh escapes Draco’s lips. “Pretty dark, Potter.” He looks sort of . . . impressed?

“Yeah, well, you know, orphan solidarity, or something.”

“Right.” Draco nods and returns his attention to the cluster of Thestrals. He bites his lip like he’s considering something and scratches the closest Thestral under its chin until its eyes flutter closed. Harry finds himself rather envious of the Thestral right now. “I don’t suppose he’d like to pet one?” Draco says quietly.

“Yeah?” Harry asks. “That would be okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Teddy whoops. “I want to! I want to!”

“All right, all right, just hold on a minute.” Harry turns back to Draco. “How would he do that? Can we go in there?”

“If you’re with me, you can. Slowly, small steps.” He opens the gate and waves them in. “Harry, be sure to guide Teddy, so he doesn’t bump into one by accident.”

_Harry._

They step inside, Harry’s arm around Teddy’s shoulder, Teddy grinning wide and his eyes shining.

“All right, now stop.” Draco _Accios_ a bag a few feet over and reaches inside. “Hold out your hand, Teddy, and keep your palm flat.”

Harry watches Draco take Teddy’s hand and place a stiff, shrivelled mouse there.

“I’m going to guide Helena over to you and she’s going to take the mouse off your hand with her tongue. The top of her mouth is pointed, like a beak, and it may poke you a bit, but it shouldn’t hurt, all right?”

Teddy nods.

“Okay. Here she comes.”

Draco is good at this. _Really_ good at it. Gentle, patient, good-natured. Harry’s got half a mind to show this memory to Hagrid in a Pensieve sometime, because there’s no way he would believe it otherwise.

Helena ambles over, Draco’s arm draped around her neck, then stops a few feet before Teddy and Harry. Harry steps back so Teddy is in front.

“She’s here now,” Draco whispers. Harry shivers. “Can you feel her breath?”

“Yeah.” Teddy’s nose wrinkles. “It stinks. Like rotten meat.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Draco laughs. “You get used to it. All right. I’m going to tell her that she can take her snack, now. Helena, come here, girl, Teddy’s got another treat for you.”

He gently guides her chin down to Teddy’s hand, then, birdlike, she darts her mouth forward, laps up the mouse and pulls back again.

“She did it!” Teddy cries, ecstatic. “She took the mouse!”

“There. Now she trusts you. If you hold your hand out once more, she might just let you pet her to say thank you.”

Teddy does as he’s told, and sure enough, Helena nudges her head under his arm and nuzzles his armpit.

“Ah!” Teddy giggles. “Her skin is so cold!”

“It is. You get used to that, too.”

Draco takes hold of Helena again, about to guide her back to the rest, when Harry finds himself saying, “Could I try?”

Draco looks at him, startled. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He feigns a casual shrug. “It’s been a while.”

“All right,” Draco says, raising an eyebrow. “Let me get a different one, though. We can’t have Helena spoiled.”

Harry shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans nervously while he watches Draco and waits. Why is he nervous? He can see Thestrals, after all. And he’s always done all right with magical creatures. Yet he finds himself afraid that whichever one Draco brings over won’t like him. That it will say something about him as a person if Draco’s Thestral rejects him.

“This is Brutus,” Draco says, returning with a tall, beautiful Thestral stallion.  “He’s the youngest, the strongest, and the most reclusive. I thought you’d appreciate a challenge,” he smirks.

“No challenge here,” Harry says much too confidently. “I’ve fed Thestrals before.”

“I’ll let you take it from here then.” Draco winks and steps aside, gesturing to the bag of mice on the ground. He actually fucking _winks_.

Scooping up the bag, Harry holds the mouse out to Brutus, who snorts and backs away. Of course.

“Come on, Harry, you can do it!” Teddy cheers behind him.

Bloody hell.

He tries to remember doing this with Hagrid, but that was altogether different. They just threw the chunks of raw meat and got out of the way. Oh--but that might be a start.

“All right, fair enough,” he says, slow and steady. Taking his wand from his pocket, he murmurs a _Wingardium Leviosa_ and sends the mouse to hover mid-air in front of Brutus, who snatches it, gulps, and whinnies appreciatively.

This earns him a “wicked!” from Teddy and “not bad” frown from Draco.

“Part marks, Potter.”

“I’m only just getting started,” he grins, gaining confidence.

After a few very cautious steps, Harry is now within arm’s reach of Brutus. His pulse pounds in his ears. For some reason, he really wants to win this stupid beast over. But when he lifts his arm, something altogether unexpected happens. Brutus sniffs the air, stomps his feet, and lets out an ear-splitting shriek before throwing his skull into Harry’s chest so hard that it knocks him over.

“What the everlasting _fuck_ \--”

Brutus’s icy cold scales rub into Harry’s neck as the Thestral whines and whinnies. It sounds like some deranged form of sobbing, or laughing?

“Er, Draco?” he calls shakily.

Draco is already striding towards them, panic written on his face.

“Teddy, stay where you are,” he says without taking his eyes from Harry. “Everything’s fine. Potter, what did you do to him?”

“Nothing! Draco, I swear! I lifted my arm and he went berserk!”  

Draco places one hand under Brutus’s chin and pushes him up, then offers the other to help Harry. Harry takes Draco’s hand and feels his face flush. Once he’s properly on his feet, Brutus tries to lunge into his chest again, but Draco keeps them both steady.

“Brutus, back!” he barks.

“Why is he trying to kill me?” Harry says. It comes out squeaky and humiliating.

“He’s not. If he were trying to do that, you’d be dead already.” Draco’s words are matter-of-fact, but his gaze is vague and unfocussed, like he’s trying to remember something. “Actually,” he says, eyes back to Harry, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s trying to protect you, perhaps even show you affection.”

“He likes you!” Teddy laughs gleefully from the sidelines.

Harry wishes he found it funny, or that Draco did, but it certainly doesn’t seem that way.

“You’ve never been here before?” Draco asks, brow furrowed in suspicion.

“Never. Why?”

“It’s just that . . . nevermind. Come on, let’s get you and Teddy out of here.”

“Aaaaaaaaaw,” Teddy pouts.

“Draco’s right, Ted,” Harry says, feeling a bit put out himself. “Lead the way.”

The gate clinks closed behind the three of them, and the Thestrals disperse, all except Brutus, who stands at the gate, eyeing Harry mournfully. Or, Harry expects it would look mournful if that creepy thing had actual eyeballs.  

Teddy runs a little ahead, distracted by various habitats in different stages of construction.

The walk back to the entrance is quiet. Draco’s lost in thought again and Harry won’t interrupt, even if he’s painfully curious.

Andromeda’s waiting on the pavement when they reach the front office. They’re late, Harry realises with a pang of guilt. Teddy has an appointment with his metamorph specialist in ten minutes.

“Sorry!” he calls to her. She just smiles, rolls her eyes, and waves him off.

Teddy sprints towards her, turns back to Harry and Draco, waves, then grabs onto his grandmother’s elbow and Disapparates, leaving Harry alone with Draco on the patchy grass.

“Spirited one, isn’t he?” Draco observes. “I suppose I should get to know him better, being blood and all.”

Harry nods, fighting the warm and tender feelings that well up inside at that idea. Lee would have a field day with that.

“Do you normally do that for visitors? Let them in there with the Thestrals?”

“No,” Draco replies, glancing towards the office in disdain. “And the only reason I did it today is that your godson likely won’t get another chance to interact with them. The Thestrals are being sent to America in three weeks.”

He says it briskly, all business and no emotion, leaning on a partially built fence, but Harry’s not fooled.

“Shit, really? Why?”

“Can’t afford to keep them,” he says simply, his mouth set in a grim line.

“But . . . Astoria . . .”

“They were her life’s work, yes. And apparently, in this instance, one’s life’s work ends when one’s life does.”

So matter-of-fact. It smacks of throwing in the towel at the first hurdle, but Harry knows that isn’t fair. If he’s honest, just seeing Draco defeated by something as mundane and petty as bureaucracy is uncomfortable.  He hates it.

“And you just . . . accept that?”

Draco’s eyes flash with something painful and volatile. “I don’t have a choice, so yes.”

It doesn’t seem right. It’s _not_ right, even though Harry can’t quite pin down why. He doesn’t care about the Thestrals, not really, but it’s obvious Draco does. And if that’s true, they might just be the last living things that matter to him.

“Well, I don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Draco sighs, exhausted.

“Accept it. I don’t accept it. There has to be a way to keep them here.”  

Draco shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to face Harry properly. “Look. This isn’t the time for one of your crusades, Potter. This is just how life works. Sometimes, you try and you fail. Perhaps you’re not used to it, but everybody else--”

“I’m not--it’s not a crusade!” Harry insists, stopping short. Because maybe it would be better if that’s how Draco saw it. Then he could conveniently leave out the fact that he cares because Draco cares.  “I just think that if you let someone . . . help you, maybe it would work out.”

“And I suppose you’re offering?” Draco sniffs. There could be a glimmer of hope there.

“Yes,” he says without thinking. “I suppose I am.”

“Should I bother to ask _why_?”

“Because I want to,” Harry blurts.

Great. Nothing like the rationalisation of a five-year-old to put him in good stead.

“You _want_ to.”  

“Yes?” he says, finding his voice too late. “I mean, yes. I do.” He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, willing a better explanation to magically pop into his head. “I guess . . .” he continues, “it feels like the right thing. I like working at Lee’s, but it was never going to be permanent. I’d rather work with causes that are important to me directly. Up until now, I just haven’t had the opportunity. Or maybe I haven’t been looking.”

Draco scrutinises him like he’s waiting for a catch.

_The catch is, I fancy you. But don’t worry about that._

Harry clears his throat. “So anyway, I would like to see what I can do. If you’ll let me.”

Draco holds his gaze a moment longer before saying, “All right.”

“All right? Brilliant. Good.” Harry rocks back on his heels, probably smiling much too wide as he searches for a way to end this conversation gracefully. “How about we discuss it over lunch tomorrow, at the pub?”

Okay. That was a little more ballsy than he’d planned.

“The pub you work at?” Draco asks with a frown.

“Yeah, but I can take an hour for lunch,” he says quickly. _Gods, I sound desperate._  “Lee’s decent about that, as long as we aren’t busy. And Thursdays usually aren’t. So.”

Draco responds with a clipped, “Fine. Say around half one?”

“Sounds great!” Harry replies. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Draco says tightly.

Tomorrow.


	11. Chapter 11

_________________________

 

_Hello._

_I apologise for the lack of formal greeting. I’m guessing you know what this letter is about, that the hospital told you, or something. But just in case it isn’t clear from the awful “Donor Liaison” stationery, I’m the person._

_I’m the one who has your loved one’s heart._

_I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to put it._

_It’s why I didn't even know how to begin this letter. How could I call you “Dear Sir or Madam?” Or worse, “To Whom It May Concern?” I’m pretty sure it_ _definitely_ _concerns you, whoever you are._

_I should have started with “Thank you,” I suppose. But that doesn’t even begin to cover it. How can I thank you for something I’m sure you would take back, if given the chance? Why would I insult you by acting like it was a gift you gave freely? It came at an unacceptable price. I know._

_The only thing I can tell you is what it’s meant to me. That when you lost someone you cared deeply about, when they slipped away from you, you had the strength and generosity to sign that form. That even in that dark moment, you agreed to help someone else. That is extraordinary, and the simple truth is, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. The Healers said as much._

_I think about it all the time. Constantly. You know how sometimes when you can’t sleep, you can hear your own pulse in your ears in the silence? Or when you wake from a nightmare and your heart is ratcheting in your chest? Or even--when you see the people you love and something inside you sort of jumps--Whenever those things happen--and so many other little things--I think, “It’s not my heart doing the work. It’s someone else’s.”_

_It’s sobering and comforting at the same time._

_I want you to know that I will never forget it. I want you to know that since it happened, I’ve tried to live a life worthy of a second chance._

_My life has been full of “befores” and “afters.” Pretty big ones, actually. But this one is different._

_The day this new heart started beating was the day I decided to live my life, instead of having a life lived through me. That probably doesn’t make sense. In any case, it’s made a difference in how I see things, how I see myself and other people, and it’s made me face things I thought I could ignore. And it’s been for the better, I think._

_I’ve rambled on too long, I know. Nothing I could ever say will make your loss better. I know that, too._

_But I hope it brings you some kind of peace._

_Sincerely,_

_[Patient 731]_

 

_________________________  


 

Draco sits on the edge of his bed--his actual bed for once--and reads the letter for the sixth time. It never changes; he doesn’t know why he keeps expecting it to.

How could he not have known that he’d signed Astoria’s heart over to a stranger? And would he change it if he could? No. It is what she wanted, after all. But that doesn’t mean he has to embrace the idea. He can’t discern how he feels about it at all. Perhaps that’s why he keeps reading it over.

Who is this person who needed a new heart? Are they good? Are they worthy? And _where_ are they? And why did they take so long to write?

For a moment, the need to know where Astoria’s heart is overwhelms him like a surge of panic. Where is it? How can I get to it? How can I get to _her_?

There’s something about the whole thing that cuts a little too close to dark magic for him. A life sacrificed for someone else. An actual heart--pulsing and bloody, taken from one chest and placed in another. It makes him shudder. It makes him want to sick up, and then that makes him ashamed. How could he not have known?

He wants to find the person. It’s against protocol, of course. He’s no fool. But they should know! They should know who she was, what they’ve been given, what was lost when they were saved.

He folds the letter and tucks in back into the envelope, then leaves it to rest on his night table.

It won’t do to obsess over it. There are more useful things to do if he wants to preserve Astoria’s memory. And the most obvious one suddenly involves Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, who has in turns made his life hell (not that the effort wasn’t returned), or ignored him completely, and has now managed to wedge his way back into Draco’s life on three separate occasions within the last twenty-four hours. It’s just this side of irritating.

And yet. In the sparse moments over the past year when he’s allowed himself to push Astoria to the back of his mind, when he’s focussed on what he _wants_ , instead of what he’s lost . . . when he brings himself to the edge in the darkness or in the shower and he needs something to think about that will make him come instead of cry--it’s always a man.  

And when he’d come home from the pub last night and still been unable to sleep, the faceless man in his go-to fantasy suddenly had green eyes, a bare chest, and a lush mass of unruly black hair.

And earlier today, when he’d come home after their chance meeting, and allowed himself to replay those words, “Because I want to,” over and over in his mind, he came in three quick strokes, before he’d even made it to the loo.

So, yes, he has to admit he _wants_ Potter. Fuck, but he wants him. He’d have to lose all five senses not to.

And now he’s recklessly agreed to spend more time with him. Because, apparently, he’s a glutton for misery.

The bloody Thestrals, though. That was fucking weird.  

Draco has only ever seen Brutus behave like that once before. It was with Astoria, after they’d taken a holiday for two weeks, the longest she’d ever left the Thestrals in someone else’s care. When she came back, Brutus did the same thing. Knocked her over like that, like he was happy to see her and relieved she came back.

It made sense in that instance. She raised him from a foal after his mother died. He was the last Thestral to be born in captivity--they aren’t mating anymore--and he adored Astoria. He never warmed up to anyone else. Hasn’t been the same since she died.

What in Godric’s name made Brutus react that way towards Harry? Is the poor beast losing its mind? Are the conditions in the habitat really so terrible? It’s a damn good thing no one else was around to witness it. The last thing he needs is for the public to see such an unpredictable show of force from a magical creature they are at best already lukewarm about.

Draco stands up to turn down the covers on the bed on his side. The mattress is cool and smells slightly musty. He pats down his pillow. It’s been more than a year. He can do this. He slides under the sheets and settles in, staring up at the ceiling. Then he reaches over to his night table for the letter, placing it on Astoria’s pillow beside him before drifting off to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry pushes in the chairs at the table he’s just finished wiping and glances at the clock again. Lee catches him doing it. Fuck.

“Desperate for a break, Potter?” Lee tsks with mock disapproval. “Never took you for a clock watcher.”

“No, just checking.”

“Because if you are,” Lee continues breezily, “you can take lunch at twelve, like you usually do, instead of at half one.”

“Nope. Half one works for me today.”

“Mhmm,” is all Lee says in response.

Gods, he should just tell Lee, but waiting until the last possible second would spare him from an hour of Lee’s taking the piss, so holding out is the better option. If Lee will let him get away with that. Harry has the sinking feeling he won’t.

“Well, if you say so,” Lee sing-songs as he rearranges a few bottles behind the bar. “Anything special planned for lunch?”

“Yeah,” Harry says evenly. “Eating.”

“How avante garde.”

“I have some washing up to do, so I’m just going to--”

“--Yes, I have some re-stocking to do, so I’ll join you in the kitchen,” Lee says with a Cheshire Cat grin.

Harry’s shoulders drop. Nope, Lee is not going to let him get away with this.

Once they’re in the relative safety of the kitchen, Harry confesses.

“He’s coming, all right?” Harry mumbles as he runs warm water over some serving platters. “He’s coming here for lunch and we’re talking about, I dunno . . . saving Thestrals or something.”

“Aha . . .” Lee looks insufferably smug. He’s also not re-stocking a blessed thing. He’s merely standing there with his arms crossed over his chest. “And?”

“Why does there always have to be an _and?_ ”

“Because that’s how it works. So. And?”

“I don’t know!”

“Is it a _date_?” He wiggles his shoulders and his eyebrows simultaneously.

“No,” Harry sighs. “Definitely not.”

Lee shakes his head like he’s never seen a more hopeless case. “But he’s coming here. For lunch. With you.”

“Technically.”

“Well, all right! At least you haven’t scared him off, yeah?”

“I guess.”

“Saving Thestrals, eh?”

“Yeah, sort of. The sanctuary you mentioned, Teddy and I went there yesterday, and Draco was there.”

“What an impressive coincidence!”

“Shut up.” Harry purses his lips. “Anyway. The Thestrals were Astoria’s project before she died, and now the board is threatening to move them to America. Too expensive, not enough public support or some bollocks.”

“Hmm. And you’re going to help how, exactly?”

It’s a fair question, even if Harry doesn’t like how little faith it implies.

“I have a few ideas,” he says defensively. “I’ve owled Luna to see if we can get a _Quibbler_ profile on the sanctuary.”

“Not a bad start.”

“And . . . and well, there is something I wanted to float by you, about perhaps using the pub in some sort of fundraiser night . . .”

“What?” Harry can’t tell if Lee is genuinely surprised or offended or neither. “And when were you planning on asking me?”

“Er. After I checked with Draco?”

“So you were going to check with _Draco_ before using _my_ pub. I’m hearing that correctly?”

“Yeah, well, sort of--”

“All right, all right, sure. Makes all the sense in the world. So, if I were to hypothetically agree to this . . . _When_ would be the best date for you to use my pub to get a leg over on Draco Malfoy?”

“That is _not_ what I’m doing and you know it!”

“Isn’t it, though?” Lee leers. “If you’ll admit that’s what this is about, I might be more amenable to helping you out.”

“For fuck’s sake. It’s not . . . _entirely_ what this is about,” Harry says weakly, then corrects himself with a huff. “No. It’s not at _all_ what this is about, I mean. Dating him maybe, but the only one who keeps talking about sex is you.”

“Somebody has to guide the youth of today, Harry.”

Harry can’t roll his eyes any harder. “You’re two years older than I am.”

“Well done, you! And you say you’re pants at maths.”

“Aaagh,” Harry groans at the ceiling. “I give up. I hate you and I give up. Fine. I want to fuck Draco Malfoy into the mattress and that’s the only reason I need your help. Happy?”

The Cheshire Cat grin returns. “Chuffed to itty bitty pieces. All right. I’ll think about it.”

“Wanker.”

Lee shoves a tray of glasses into Harry’s hands on his way out of the kitchen before elbowing him in the ribs.

“Take these over to the bar and for Flamel’s sake, Harry, tuck in your fucking shirt.”  


****  


Draco’s early. He’s standing by the host desk in a midnight-blue button up and black jeans, jaw set, hair swept away from his face, looking vaguely uncomfortable and stupidly gorgeous. _When did that happen?_ Harry asks himself, as he’s already asked himself a dozen times over the past three days. How did he miss it? Was chasing down dark wizards for all those years really worth it, if this key development went unnoticed?

“Quit staring and put him out of his misery,” Lee mutters. Harry doesn’t need to be told twice.

He and Draco exchange awkward pleasantries and, at Harry’s suggestion, settle into a booth near the back. Lee brings them an appetizer platter to share (Draco’s doubtful appraisal of it doesn’t go unnoticed) and a pitcher of water, and makes small talk to Draco about how Puddlemere United looks for the playoffs. Harry sends Lee a grudging, grateful smile before he nods and leaves them to it.  

“So . . .” Harry says, “I have some ideas.”

“Let’s hear them,” Draco says, sipping his water and betraying nothing.

Harry outlines his plans for the _Quibbler_ article as Draco listens politely.

“What do you think?”

“That’s all well and good, but it won’t be enough,” Draco says impatiently. “I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but we need more than people being sympathetic to Thestrals. It’s not enough for people to _like_ them.”

Harry has a feeling Draco has already written this off as a “Naive Saviour Plan.”

“We need--”

“--Money, I know,” Harry cuts in. “A lot of money. I’ve looked into it. But I think the two go hand in hand. I was talking to Lee,” Harry continues when he sees Draco nodding along. “And we have time--just enough time--to organize a fundraiser at the pub, and advertise that alongside the article, before the three-week deadline.”

Draco laughs, and even though it isn’t a particularly kind or generous laugh, Harry likes it.

“Potter, that’s ludicrous. Nobody plans a fundraiser on a _whim_. These things take months. The PRAMB gala was cancelled this year for precisely that reason. It requires an entire team of dedicated people, working full time, meeting regularly, discussing menu and venue and--”

“--But that’s just what I’m trying to say! That’s the way it worked before, with Astoria, and I know she was good at it--”

“--She was incredible.”

“I know,” Harry says, softening. “But that’s exactly why you can’t do it that way anymore. Nobody can do it like she could, so we shouldn’t try. You have to work with what you’ve got.”

“And what have I got?” Draco asks skeptically.

“Me, obviously,” Harry says too quickly. “I mean, my connections. Your audience before--largely older pure-bloods, right?”

“Yes,” Draco says, narrowing his eyes like he’s not sure he likes where this is going.

“And I get it--those were the circles you were used to--both of you. Sacred twenty-eight and all of that.”

“I hate that moniker,” Draco says coldly, which is more than fine with Harry. “But yes. We went with what we knew. If there’s anything pure-bloods know how to do it’s how to show off and spend money.”

“You said it, not me,” Harry mutters under his breath, then continues before Draco can call him on it. “But you have to know there are other magical people out there with money to spend on the right cause, yeah? And maybe fancy galas aren’t so much their thing. Maybe they’d prefer, I don’t know . . . a competitive trivia night or something?”

“A trivia night,” Draco repeats blankly.

“Yes! A tournament, even. They’re all the rage at Muggle pubs, and Lee’s been meaning to try one for a while. A few people have already asked about it. If we charged people a certain amount to play, and perhaps held a silent auction at the same time and had a set menu--”

“--You really think you can pull all of that off in such a short time?”

Harry falters. Now that he’s said it all, it does sound like an awful lot. “Er, I really think I can try? How hard is this deadline, anyway?”

Draco takes another prim sip of water, and Harry notices the scarf is absent around his neck today. It’s not doing his concentration any favours.

“The vote is three weeks from yesterday. I’m sure it’s all a formality,” Draco sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his forehead with his middle two fingers. “They’ve been wanting to get rid of me and this project for months; by holding a vote, they can pretend it’s democratic. It would take a miracle to change their minds, you realise.”

Draco is trying to give him an out, but if he thinks Harry will take it, he knows him even less than Harry thought he did.

“Then we should get started,” he says simply.

“Potter--”

“Could you stick with Harry, maybe, if we’re working together?”

Well, that just slipped out.

Draco opens his mouth, then appears to think better of it before mumbling, “All right. I do it without thinking.”

“I know. But, maybe . . . start thinking about it a little more?”

Draco’s cheeks pink up and he looks down at the plate of untouched appetizers.

“Not hungry?” Harry asks to break the awkward silence.

Draco ignores the question. “You’re still bound and determined to help me, then?”

There it is again: that thinly veiled hope. It’s a thing Harry understands well. Don’t let anyone know you want something, because that’s the surest way to be disappointed. He wishes Draco would trust him.

“Wild Thestrals couldn’t drag me away, Draco,” he replies, aiming for a balance of playful and sincere. “I’m serious.”

“Good.” Draco nods. “Then let’s go ahead. Contact your . . .connections and owl me with times and dates. I’ll do what I can on my end.”

“Will do.”

“But, Harry?”

Gods, his name sounds amazing on Draco’s lips. “Hmm?” he mumbles distractedly.

“Probably best to stay away from any more Thestrals for the time being.”

“Agreed,” Harry laughs, and signals a surreptitious thumbs up to Lee when Draco isn’t looking.

It’s not a date, but it’s something. And it’s going to keep happening.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Over the next week and a half, Draco’s life goes from being empty and predictable to being busy and off-kilter. He can’t decide if he likes it.

He likes parts of it, certainly. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer grit and devotion that Harry is putting into this project, or--Salazar forgive him--how pleasant Harry’s company can be.

It’s been so long since he’s actively  _ looked forward _ to seeing someone. And yet, he finds himself doing just that.  

And despite being honest with himself about how much he wants Harry (If his cock could just calm the fuck down whenever Harry touches him, that would be great), he never expected to have to deal with how much he wants to be  _ with _ Harry. 

It happened quickly and without his permission, and he doesn’t know what to do with it. To make matters worse, he can’t tell from one day to the next how Harry might feel about it.

With Astoria, there was never any doubt. Things progressed smoothly and as expected after that first day. She left little room for second-guessing, which allowed him to do the same. 

With Harry it’s anything but straightforward, and it’s terrifying. He doesn’t even know if he’s ready to move on (hot buggering  _ fuck _ how he hates that phrase), but if he knew there was a chance of something between them, at least he could stop dealing in hypotheticals.

Sometimes, the way Harry looks at him after he’s said something vulnerable (or pathetic, really) . . . It’s like he  _ sees _ Draco, really sees him. The moments are sparse and short-lived, but undeniably intimate, somehow.  

He thinks of when they were at Luna’s last week, sitting on her lumpy, Kneazle-hair-covered sofa, and Harry stretched out his arm behind Draco. Not around him, exactly--but with his bare forearm ever so slightly brushing the back of Draco’s neck, and neither of them moved, though Draco could have sworn both of them jumped at the skin-to-skin contact and sudden heat. 

Tonight, they’ll be at Harry’s flat to go over final details for the fundraiser which is yes, a trivia night of all things and yes, at Lee’s pub of all places. They’ve sold 92 percent of the tickets, and Harry has managed to rope Weasley and Granger into hosting the evening and formulating trivia questions. Luna will be covering the event and Lee will be hovering over everyone’s shoulder, or so Harry tells him. Tonight, Lee is expected to be working in the kitchen until the wee hours of the morning, making sure the menu is simple and satisfying. That just leaves the “personal element” to plan, as Harry likes to call it. Draco will have to show his face, give a bit of an introduction, like Astoria used to do so effortlessly, and he’s not looking forward to it.

Draco enters the pub at nine, and Lee waves him up. He climbs the stairs, careful not to drop the box of photos under his arm. He readjusts the box when he gets to the top and taps the door.

“Come in,” Harry calls.

Draco steps into the warm, cozy space to find Harry seated at a small wooden table.

“Hi.” Harry grins at him and pulls out the chair next to him.

Draco takes a moment before sitting down. It’s his first time here; they’ve always managed to meet in neutral territory up until now, but Draco hadn’t wanted to talk about this--about Astoria and the photos and everything that goes with it--in a public space, and the very idea of having Harry at his flat was murder on his nerves.

Lee and Harry’s flat is pretty much what he would expect of a bachelor pad above a pub. Small, nothing extraneous, a loveseat and a reclining chair in the shared space, along with a modest kitchen with the table shoved into one corner by the only window.

“Nice place,” Draco offers.

“Not really,” Harry chuckles, “but thanks for saying so. Shall we get to work?” He nods to the seat beside him. Draco places the box gingerly on the table and sits.

“May I?” Harry asks, tapping the box.

Draco nods. His whole married life is in there, and he hasn’t bothered to differentiate between the relevant and the non-relevant pictures. To him, they’re all relevant, after all. Harry will have to help him pick and choose which things to show tomorrow night. He’d assumed when they started planning this that Harry would be the new face of this effort, for obvious reasons, but Harry wouldn’t hear it. “This work was hers, and now it’s yours, not mine. People need to hear that story, from  _ you _ , not me.”

So here he is, watching Harry rifle through everything that’s left of what he had with Astoria. 

“I’ll be careful,” Harry says softly, lifting the lid. “Thanks for trusting me with this.” He begins by laying each photo and scrap of paper out on the table, scarcely allowing their edges to touch. He’ll run out of room eventually, but Draco appreciates the effort. He holds his breath as the photos reanimate in front of him--Astoria kissing Cupcake, Draco brooding over a cup of tea in their sitting room, the two of them, sleepy and sun-kissed and leaning into each other outside a souvenir shop in Italy.

“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly. “I should have gone through them beforehand. I just--”

“It’s fine.” Harry waves him off, drawing out a piece of paper that happens to be their marriage certificate. He fingers one corner, smoothing out the wrinkles. “I don’t mind. You two . . . had something amazing. It’s nice to see.”

“We did.” Draco’s voice cracks with emotion, much to his embarrassment. At least he was right about doing this in private. “I rarely talk about her, or--I rarely get to talk about her the way I want to. With Blaise, sometimes, but it’s difficult. I don’t want to be that person, the one with the dark cloud over his head, you know.”

“Yeah, I do.” Harry nods, placing a very tentative hand on Draco’s arm. Draco won’t look at it, or acknowledge its presence, but he takes it to mean that he can keep talking. 

“People avoid me enough as it is,” he tries to joke, but can only manage a faint smile. 

“Can you tell me more about her?” Harry asks like he’s genuinely interested, like he doesn’t know the gift he’s offering Draco just by asking. “I know she was two years below us at Hogwarts, and Daphne’s sister, but other than that, I’d really like to know more about the person who could stand to live with you full time.”

“Ha ha,” Draco smirks and tries to swallow the lump that’s lodged in his throat. “What do you want to know?”

“Start at the beginning.”

 

****

 

Draco doesn’t know how much time has passed. If he took a moment to stop and think about how long he’s been talking, he would likely be horrified, but he won’t let himself do that, because it feels too good to keep going.

Harry keeps staring at him with his deep green eyes, and his hand hasn’t moved from Draco’s arm. He nods and asks questions in all the right places. 

Draco’s told him about how they met, their lack of support from their parents, their plans, their successes, their failures. He skates fairly close to the surface when it comes to anything truly intimate, but in everything else he’s an open book. 

The time comes, though, when the words slow down, and he’s tired, and stops to really look at Harry, whose eyes haven’t left him.

“I suppose we should get back to the order of the day, though.” Draco says weakly. 

“Only if you’re ready,” is all Harry says.

Draco doesn’t answer. “Ready” is a subjective word. He pulls the box closer and fishes out the picture of him with the Thestral that Astoria showed that night. 

“This was the money shot last year,” he explains. “We won’t have many repeat guests so it would probably do well to include it this year.”

Harry takes it from him and studies it with a quick intake of breath. 

“What?” Draco asks.

“Er--nothing.” Harry shakes his head. “It’s really good, yeah. We’ll definitely include this one.” He looks at it for longer than Draco is comfortable with, to be honest. 

“As for the rest, I have some of Astoria raising Brutus from a foal--”

“Wait--I’ve just thought of something--” Harry looks up. “There will probably be people in the audience who can’t see Thestrals. Is there a way to--”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that.” Draco tried not to sound too smug, but it still is one of the things he’s most proud of. “These photographs were all developed with a serum I invented. It allows anyone to see what might be hidden in plain sight in any photo--including Thestrals.”

“What? But that’s brilliant!” Harry exclaims, startling Draco, who feels his cheeks flush as Harry’s hand actively squeezes his wrist in excitement. “Why hasn’t everyone heard about this? Do you know how many uses there could be for something like that?”

“Oh, I, er . . . I never really thought about it. It was just to help Astoria.” Draco flushes even more, because Harry’s right, of course. He should have thought of that. Perhaps he could have even found the money to fund the Thestral project long ago, if he weren’t so distracted.

“You’re--” Harry stops, and Draco looks up to find Harry giving him an unreadable look. And now he’s . . . is he leaning in?

The world spins in slow motion as he watches Harry’s hand reach up to cup his face. It’s warm and rough. Harry’s eyes flick down to Draco’s lips, then back up. Draco finds himself leaning in, too, and his own eyes fluttering closed, his own lips parting and his heart beating wildly. 

And then they’re kissing, holy fuck, Harry Potter is kissing him, leaning into him, placing a hand on his thigh to steady them both, pressing his lips to Draco’s, hard and insistent. It feels so different and good and  _ right. _

Harry pulls back with a start, breathing heavy. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. But I didn’t know--should I stop?” 

“No,” Draco whispers, his voice shaking. “No, please don’t.”

Harry smiles for split second before surging forward again. He pulls Draco close with both hands on his hips and licks into Draco’s mouth. Draco can feel Harry’s stubble scrape his chin and opens his mouth wider without thinking. He needs to taste more, feel more. Their tongues swirl together and Draco pushes his chest closer to Harry’s, his mind wavering between vague thoughts of  _ what the fuck? _ and  _ oh gods, yes _ . 

Harry breaks the kiss again and moves his lips to Draco’s ear, which, frankly, makes Draco’s whole  _ body _ hard. “Do you want to . . .” He doesn’t finish.

Something creaks just outside the door.

“Fuck! Lee!” Harry rasps, eyes wide as he pulls back. Both of them straighten into their chairs and pull in towards the table. Harry picks up a photo and pretends to study it (it’s upside down, Draco notes), just in time for the door to swing open. 

“Evening, Gentlemen,” Lee booms. “I just had a few questions about--I say, is it warm in here?” He grins at Harry, who glares back. “Hello Draco, sorry I was too busy to greet you properly before. No rest for the wicked, yeah? You two still at it, then?”

Harry and Draco exchange glances, and Harry quickly responds with a tight, “Yeah. What did you need, Lee?”

“You know what, I think it can wait,” Lee winks and steps back, shutting the door behind him. 

“Safe to say that wrecked the moment?” Harry asks with a lopsided grin.

And unfortunately, it sort of has. Even though all of Draco’s nerve endings are still alight and he can still feel Harry’s lips on his, his mind has caught up with these most recent events and he needs some time to process. It’s probably best that Lee came in when he did, all things considered.

“Perhaps,” he says quietly. “This is all rather a lot . . .”

“It’s okay,” Harry says quickly. “I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I just--I really like you. A lot.” He bites his lip nervously. “I’ve thought about asking you out tons of times but it just didn’t feel--”

“Right?” Draco finishes for him.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Does that mean it’s still not right, then?”

“I don’t know,” Draco admits, and hates himself for saying it. The kissing had definitely felt right but everything else . . . “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I just have to think about . . . this would be the first time I’ve dated anyone since--”

“I beg your pardon, but you walked out on a fine specimen of a date just a few weeks ago,” Harry teases.

“Right. And look how that turned out.”

“Point taken. Um--look.” Harry smooths his palms on the table. “Let’s just say we’ll come back to this when all the other stuff is over. Focus on what we came here to do, yeah?”

Gratitude and disappointment vie for top spot in Draco’s heart. “All right,” he agrees.

 

***

 

Finally it’s time for Draco to leave, after they’ve sorted out every last detail and hand-selected the most engaging prints and memories. He’s wrung out and exhausted, but in a good way. Just as he’s about to go, Harry grabs his hand.

“Draco, I want you to know that whatever happens between us, I would never try to replace her.”

There it is, that blasted lump again. “Thank you, Harry. I know. Goodnight.”

An awkward pat on the back.

“Goodnight.”

He walks down the stairs and out into the cool night air, thinking over what Harry just said. He believes Harry. He trusts him not to try to make Draco forget her--of course Harry wouldn’t do that. No, he isn’t worried about Harry. The person he’s having trouble trusting is himself. 

Because now, even though he can’t think of the past without thinking of Astoria, he also can’t picture the future without thinking of Harry. 


	14. Chapter 14

They’re kissing again. This wasn’t supposed to happen, but Harry couldn’t even pretend to complain about it. They’re hours away from opening the doors for the fundraiser and he and Draco are tucked behind the pantry door of the cellar at the pub, and Draco is sucking on his bottom lip and tugging lightly at his hair and moaning into his mouth and Harry can hardly breathe, let alone think.

It’s not the first time since that night, either. No, Draco has taken him by surprise twice since then. It’s only ever kissing--well, maybe some fully clothed frotting if you want to be technical about it--and it usually lasts all of ten minutes before Draco pulls away and apologises, and Harry lets him get away with it--all of it. Because they’re figuring it out.

Lee is the only other person who knows what’s going on (because he has eyes, obviously). Ron and Hermione have their suspicions, but they’ve respected Harry enough to listen when he asks them to wait until he’s ready to talk about it. Ideally, he’ll be able to tell them that he and Draco are officially together, when (if?) that time comes.   

And he and Draco, they’ve been talking more, too, and not just about the bloody Thestrals (sometimes Harry wishes the Thestrals were actually going to America, but he feels terrible about it). No, they’ve been talking about _things_. Things like, Draco having never been with a man, and Harry never having had a serious relationship, and more about the war and Hogwarts and Merlin, is it ever a _lot_ of talking. But it’s good. It’s been so good.

And Harry is well and truly fucked because he’s quite certain he’s in love, more in love than he ever had been before, and he’s also quite certain that Draco is barely treading water in all of this. Harry doesn’t know where Draco stands, probably because Draco doesn’t even know where Draco stands.

But right now, Draco is quite literally standing in front of him, and his hands have dipped below the waistband of Harry’s jeans, which is _new,_ and suddenly all coherent thoughts dissolve completely.

“After this . . .” Draco murmurs into his neck while tracing a slow line over Harry’s arse under his pants, sending sparks of arousal through him. “After tonight I mean--maybe you should come to mine.”

Harry’s eyes snap open. Coherent thinking returned. Sort of.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Because . . .”

Draco removes his hands from Harry’s back and stops to look at him. He frowns, almost like he’s annoyed. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s fucking . . . inconvenient.”

Harry laughs. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really, and there’s no need to be arrogant about it.”

“Does that mean . . .?”

“We’ll talk about what it means,” Draco says firmly, then lifts a hand to tousle Harry’s hair. It makes Harry want to lean into it like a cat. “You’re going to fix this before tonight, right?”

“Nah,” Harry smirks. “It’s a hopeless cause. Besides, I’m just the help. You’re the only one who has to look presentable.”

Draco snorts. “By whose standards? Your lot couldn’t tell designer robes from a Transfigured paper bag, I’d wager.”

“Draco, be nice,” Harry warns. “It may be mostly people who don’t know cargo pants from chinos--”

“--look who’s learning,” Draco drawls.

“--but the important thing to remember is that fashion disasters have money, too.”

“Touche,” Draco smiles, showing his teeth and a dimple on his left cheek. Harry could melt.

Both of them relax and lean against their respective storage shelves.

“Are you ready for tonight? Seriously?”

Draco nods. “I think so. Your help has been invaluable. I hope you know that.”

“I do, yes.” Harry smirks.

“As modest as I’d expect,” Draco sighs.

“So . . . your place after tonight?” Harry says, trying to keep his voice even.

“Yes. I have to warn you, though, I have a very territorial Crup. Will that be a problem?”

“I’m sure I can handle Cupcake just fine.”

“Cupcake is surprisingly immune to the disarming spell, so I wouldn't count on that.”

Harry kicks Draco lightly in the shin. "I'm counting on my charm and roguish good looks."

"Merlin help you," Draco mutters and shakes his head. 

  



	15. Chapter 15

Blaise lounges across Draco’s sofa and scratches Cupcake behind her ears. He’s supposedly here to help calm Draco’s nerves before tonight, which is now a mere hour and a half away, but Blaise, being Blaise, is being the opposite of helpful, which Draco should have expected.

“Are you sure that’s the right look?” he asks Draco without apology, letting his gaze run up and down the black jeans and maroon jumper Draco has already spent too much time agonising over.

Draco heaves an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Blaise. We’ve been over this. It’s not a gala. If I show up overdressed, I’ll lose them before I open my mouth.”

“Or you could just accept that no amount of Muggle whatever-you’re-trying-to-pull-off-here will let them forget who you are. Might as well be comfortable, no?”

“I am comfortable,” he shoots back. “Never much liked ties and robes anyway.”

It’s not _entirely_ true, but something about the way Harry looks at him in disbelief when he dresses like this is very, very motivating. And it is true he hasn’t gotten at better at tying his own ties.

“Whatever you say.” Blaise shrugs. “I take it things are going well between you and Potter? You never did tell me how it is you too became so _cozy_ , you know.”

“Didn’t I?” Draco deflects. “Not much to tell. He was interested in the cause. Working together just made sense.”

“The cause.”

“Blaise, you might as well come out with whatever you’re dancing around.”

“I don’t think you’re ready for that.”

“Try me.”

And he means it. He’s meant to tell Blaise a thousand times about whatever is actually happening between him and Harry, but there’s no easy way to say he’s snogging the Saviour all of a sudden.

“All right, I’ll bite,” Blaise drawls. “You fancy him, don’t you?”

“What an earth gave you that idea?” Draco asks innocently, but he can’t keep a straight face.

“Wait, are you _shagging_ him? I _will_ need details.”

“No, Blaise, nothing like that. Merlin, you can’t buy class, can you? But we’re . . . more than friendly.”

“You’re together, then?”

“Not exactly,” Draco says, checking his hair in the mirror.

“Fuck, Draco, if you’re not together and you’re not fucking then what the hell are you?”

“Uhm.” This would be why he hasn’t told Blaise yet, evidently. But he needs to tell _someone_. “We’re talking. We’re . . . getting to know one another. Snogging a bit,” he mumbles as an afterthought. Gods, this is embarrassing. Worse than he feared.

Blaise’s face loses its teasing sneer and turns thoughtful.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“You know what that sounds like, right?”

“No?” Draco sets his jaw. “What does it sound like?”

Blaise smiles sympathetically. “Well, to me, it sounds a lot like--please don’t kill me, I’m too pretty--you and Astoria.”

“What do you mean?” Draco snaps. “This is nothing like that. Why would you say that?”

“Easy, now. The circumstances are quite different, I grant you. But remember, at the beginning? You and Astoria talked like . . . listen, I’m all for open communication, but it’s like you two forgot your mouths could be used for anything else. I was sexually frustrated just hearing about it. And you were always making excuses to spend time together, even though you refused to call it dating.”

Draco frowns. It’s true, all of it.

“I can’t speak to the snogging bit--”

“--So don’t,” Draco interjects.

“But erm, I guess what I’m meaning to ask is, do you lo--”

“--Don’t do that either. Don’t ask me that.”

“If you love him, you mean?”

“Blaise,” Draco growls.

“Fine. Alright. But can I just say . . . it would be okay if you did?”

No. No, no, no, they are not talking about this. They can’t be.

“As if I would need your permission,” he scoffs in an effort to disguise his panic.

“I know,” Blaise sighs. “But I’m giving it anyway. Someone has to.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? I liked it better when you were insulting my clothes.”

“Always here for that, mate. I don’t think maroon is your colour.”

Draco goes to change his jumper from maroon to plum, and they don’t speak of Harry again.   


 

***

 

“Draco, you look . . .” Harry trails off and bites his lip. “Really nice.”

It’s not exactly “ _Draco Malfoy, you look positively edible,”_ but he’ll take it, especially when Harry’s eyes run over him like _that_.

“Thank you,” he says briskly. “I thought it best to go casual.”

“Yeah, yep, completely,” Harry nods.

“Evening, Potter,” Blaise cuts in and extends his hand.

“Hi, Blaise. Thanks for coming out.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. You remember Tula?” Blaise nods in his girlfriend’s direction, his hand guiding the small of her back.

“Absolutely.” Harry smiles. “Nice seeing you again. Enjoy.”

“Thanks.” She smiles back. “Hope it goes well!”

Blaise and Tula find their seats at a table with Theo Nott and his partner, and a few people Draco seems to remember were in Ravenclaw. He rolls his eyes, knowing that Blaise would have probably rooted around for the most stacked team he could put together.

“Great turn out, eh?” Harry elbows him.

“Mhm,” Draco says, swaying a little. He can’t remember the last time he was so nervous. Something feels off.

“Hey,” Harry’s hand rests lightly his shoulder. “You all right?”

“Never better,” he says unconvincingly.

“It’s going to be fine. You know this. You’re good at it. Your part will be over before you know it, and then the trivia stuff will take care of itself. Everyone here has already bought a ticket, so that’s money in Gringotts, yeah? Anyway, just breathe easy for a bit. We’ll let them get a drink or two in first.”

He knows Harry means it to be comforting, but the idea that all these people--people who are not his people--are sitting there waiting for him to speak, and that however this goes down it will be in the papers, and that if he cocks it up it will be Astoria’s legacy on the line, Merlin, he’s going to be sick . . .

Harry pulls a chair over. “Sit. And here--” he hands him a glass of water with a slice of lemon.

Draco sips it and manages a grateful smile. Harry goes to check things with Lee in the kitchen.

It does feel better to be off his feet. Searching the room for more familiar faces, his eyes land on Granger’s, who’s looked up from her stack of trivia cue cards and is eyeing him with something resembling concern. They’ve hardly spoken since the war, although he did send her an apology letter years ago. She accepted it gracefully, but that was as far as their correspondence went. She’s leaving her seat now, fuck, and she’s making her way over.

“Hello, Draco,” she says warmly.

“Hermione,” he replies, noting it’s the first time he’s ever called her that.

She smooths her hair back with one hand--a nervous gesture she’s done since she was a child, he notices. “I just wanted to say, before it all gets going, that I think you’re doing a great thing here. The wizarding world could use a lot more activism and awareness when it comes to magical creatures, and I’m rather sorry I’d hardly considered it before this.”

“Thank you,” Draco says, pleasantly taken aback. He’d assumed she was only here as a favour to Harry.  “That’s very kind of you to say. You’ve been busy, I gather?”

“Yes, but I can always make time for a good cause, I’m sure you remember,” she teases.

“How is the standard of living for House Elves at Hogwarts these days, anyway?” He smirks.

“A work in progress, as always,” she sighs, then shifts her gaze as something catches her attention. Draco follows her sightline to see Harry shoulder to shoulder with Lee, poring over the menu for what must be the hundredth time. “I can see you’ve been good for him,” she says slyly.

Draco doesn’t know how to respond to that. A denial won’t do, as she hasn’t exactly accused him of anything. Instead he says “He’s always been good,” before he can take it back. “Defending Thestrals comes as naturally to him as defending everything else, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione shakes her head like he’s some sort of lost kitten. “You do know he doesn’t give a damn about the Thestrals, right?”

“Of course he does,” Draco sputters, heat prickling the back of his neck.

“I mean, he doesn’t wish them harm of course, and I’m sure if he had to choose, he’d prefer to keep them in England, but I think there was something--or someone--else, that inspired him to lend a hand here, don’t you?”

“I’ll leave you to your theories, Granger,” Draco says evenly.

“Be careful, Draco,” she replies before slipping back to her table. “For both of your sakes. And good luck.”  


 

***

 

After Lee goes over the house rules for the evening, he introduces Draco to the crowd and motions for him to come forward to “Say a few words.”

Harry has the projector all keyed up to display the photos on the wall behind him. He nods at Draco and mouths “Go for it!”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Draco finds his way to the podium and looks out into the crowd.

“Good evening everyone. Thank you so much for coming.

I know your primary objective here tonight is to have fun while determining who can claim to have retained the most useless facts.”

The crowd offers a few polite chuckles.

“You will be tested on your knowledge of Sports, Literature, Current Events, and Popular Culture--whatever that is.”

The laughter is slightly more generous. Harry had suggested that they would warm up to Draco if he could prove that he didn’t take himself too seriously.

“But before we get to that, I’d like to tell you why we’re really here--and it’s not because Lee offered extra appetizers to the winning team."

Lee smiles and waves.

“Harry,” Draco clears his throat, “If you could show the first slide.”

Harry taps his wand to the projector and sends a burst of light onto the wall, which quickly arranges itself into the first image.

A few gasps come from the audience as a picture of Astoria feeding Brutus is displayed.

“For some of you, no doubt, this is the first time you’ve seen a Thestral in a full colour photograph, instead of an illustration. Don’t be alarmed--these photos were developed with a special serum that allows you to see them exactly as they are, even if you haven’t seen death.”

The crowd relaxes and hums in appreciation.

“That is my wife--my late wife, Astoria, nursing a Thestral foal whose parents died soon after it was born. Astoria was a champion for all magical creatures, but especially those who are prone to being ignored or mistreated because of their appearance or perceived danger to humans. Thestrals were her favourite.”

Harry taps his wand and the image shifts to one of Astoria applying a protective balm over the scales on a full grown Thestral.

“Thestrals are, in fact, harmless when treated with respect and given the resources they need to thrive while in captivity. The Thestrals that magickind has domesticated for its own purposes deserve to live out the remainder of their days in safety that only we can provide, and in a sanctuary that is equal to their physical and social needs.”

Draco continues his speech the way he practised it, outlining much of what Astoria did before him, explaining the slides that show the Thestral enclosure as it is, as well as blueprints of what the sanctuary could be. He pokes fun at himself the way Astoria did when the photo of him and Brutus comes up, which does well with the audience again. Finally, he reaches the last slide, and has to take a moment to regroup. He finds himself ignoring the neat, proper ending he wrote and going off book.

“This is a photograph of Astoria giving her talk at the PRAMB gala last year at around this time,” he says, swallowing hard. “As some of you may know, she died suddenly that evening, of a blood curse we didn’t know she had. She left her work unfinished, and she left me, her husband, alone to face the world without her.”

A hush falls over the room.

“I know this isn’t about me. I also know that there are many of you here tonight who would have good reason to want me to suffer that kind of loss. Many of you have lost someone, or experienced great pain, because a man I once supported wanted terrible things at a terrible price. I’m not asking you to forgive that grave mistake. If you want to see losing her as part of my penance, so be it.” He sets his jaw, determined to remain composed.

“But--but she was _good_.” His voice wavers and he chokes a little before continuing. “She was honest and generous and did everything in her power to see the good in other people, including me. She poured her heart and soul into her work, believing that every living thing deserves love and respect. But not only that--she believed, as I do, that sometimes the ugly, frightening, or unwieldy beasts of this world teach us things that beautiful creatures can’t.

A Thestral may not have the beauty of a unicorn or the majesty of a hippogriff, but it allows us to look death in the eye and acknowledge it, instead of pretending it doesn’t exist. Death is a part of life, after all. And as someone once said to me, it should come with a few perks.”

For the first time since starting to speak he dares to look at Harry, who’s shaking his head and biting back a smile.

“If the Thestrals are re-located to America, not only will Astoria’s dream be lost, but we’ll have lost something, too. Thestrals remind us that death is ever-present and inevitable, but also that love and trust can be found in unexpected places, even when it looks scary. Even when everything seems wrong. I think that’s something worth preserving. So that’s why I’m here tonight, humbly asking for your continued support.

“Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”

The lights go up and music starts playing in the background as servers bring plates of hot, greasy food to each table.

Draco leaves the podium, legs shaking and chest aching, and heads for the loo to regroup, perhaps have a small cry--he deserves it. But he’s cut off just before he gets there.

Before he can even register what’s happening, Harry has his arms around him and is drawing him close. He can feel the heat radiating from Harry’s body and wants to crawl into it somehow, safe and guarded. Gods, he’s seconds away from a sobbing mess and Harry isn’t making it any easier.

Harry brings his hands up to grab Draco’s face and presses their foreheads together.

“You were incredible,” he whispers fiercely, one thumb softly tracing Draco’s bottom lip. “Incredible.”

“Thanks,” he replies hoarsely. Their lips brush together.  

“Let’s go,” Harry murmurs.

“What?”

“Let’s go, now,” he repeats, glancing over his shoulder and then back at Draco. “Look at you. You’re a wreck.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Draco grumbles, unable to muster up the energy for a proper retort. “I can’t leave now, it’s only just begun--”

“Ron and Hermione have it covered. I’ve already spoken with them. You’re exhausted, and you’ve done more than enough. I don’t mean . . . We don’t . . . have to do anything, or talk about anything. I know what you said earlier, but I understand things have probably changed for tonight, and that is completely okay.”

Draco’s heart swoops in his chest and he can’t think of a good enough reason to argue. He wants to go home, with Harry, whatever that may or may not entail, and the sooner the better. It’s the only thing he wants.

“You’re sure it’s under control here?” he asks faintly.

“Positive.” Harry’s eyes are softly determined.

“All right. Take me home. If you must.”

“Okay.” Harry breaks into a relaxed grin and grabs his hand.


	16. Chapter 16

Their hands are still clasped together when they arrive in the floo of Draco’s flat. Harry’s eyes adjust to the dim light in Draco’s sitting room, taking in the understated and elegant decor, not that he knows much about it. He wonders whether it speaks to Draco’s tastes or Astoria’s. They’re both quiet. Harry wracks his brain for something safe to say.

“Didn’t you promise me some kind of guard dog?”

Draco relaxes. “She’s over there.” He cocks head to the velvet, frilly cushion by the window, where a tiny fluffy thing snores and wheezes.“I, er, gave her a bit of sedative before I Ieft--completely safe, I assure you--because I know she wouldn’t give us a moment’s peace otherwise.”

“Oh,” is all Harry can think to say when he wants to ask, “And just what did you have in mind that would require more than a moment’s peace?”

He tells his mind to behave.

“I’m afraid I’m a terribly out-of-practice host,” Draco is saying in a clipped tone. “Blaise just makes himself at home, and otherwise--well, that’s it, I suppose.”

“I won’t know the difference,” Harry assures him, “I’m not exactly . . .”

Draco’s fingers suddenly release his hand and land on his hip, gently coaxing him to turn so their bodies are facing each other, inches apart. Draco’s eyes are dark, his jaw relaxed, lips slightly parted. He looks . . . fuck, he looks . . .

“Can I kiss you?” asks Harry. _Please, gods, say yes._ He’s been dying to kiss Draco all night.

Instead of answering, Draco tugs him close with both hands and mouths Harry’s jawline, then his neck, sucks on his earlobe and runs a hand under the hem of Harry’s shirt, pushing it up and palming Harry’s chest.

“Merlin, fuck,” Harry breathes, hardly daring to believe this is happening.

“Off,” Draco says, pulling on Harry’s shirt again, his lips not leaving Harry’s neck. “I need to see you.”

“Yeah,” Harry swallows. “Er, you’ll have to--”

“Fine,” Draco huffs, and steps back to pull it roughly over Harry’s shoulders himself, which, fucking Salazar's ghost, Harry could get used to. He’s half hard already. Draco rakes his eyes over Harry’s frame, then closes the distance between them again so their chests are flush and their lips find each other.

Harry opens his mouth, searching for Draco’s tongue. It glides over his, and he wants to swallow it, needs to have Draco claim his mouth over and over.

This is something different, not like the other times they’ve kissed--quick and hidden and desperate--this is full of something else, of promise, maybe, of dangerous hope.  

Draco is pushing harder against Harry and whimpering a little, like he’s found something precious that might be snatched from him at any moment. Harry wraps his arms around him, as tight as he can, a frustrated moan building in his throat.

“I want this,” Draco breaks the kiss to whisper needily into Harry’s ear. “I want this so much. I want you so much.”

“Me too, Draco, fuck.”

“Bed.”

“Yeah.”

Draco guides Harry to his bedroom, walking backwards, pulling Harry like a trained puppy. When they reach the bed, Draco takes Harry down with him.

As they kick off their shoes--decorum, after all--Harry tries to take a moment to consider if this is the best idea. What are they doing? Are they going to fuck? Is Draco ready for this? Is he? What will it mean? Draco hasn’t even been with a man and Harry’s own experience isn’t exactly impressive. What if it’s terrible? What if it ruins everything?

But when Draco hovers over him, pinning down his chest with one cool, firm hand, knocks Harry’s legs open with his knee, slotting it between them, angling it just right--it becomes really difficult to keep asking hypothetical questions. Harry grinds into the pressure and bites his lip at how good it feels.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” Draco complains.  

“Draco,” Harry pants and laughs, then grimaces at the way Draco continues teasing his cock. “ _You--_ ah--are still completely dressed. How many layers are you wearing anyway? Fuck, yes . . .”  

“The wrong amount,” Draco agrees, and pulls back, eliciting a whine from Harry. He strips off his own jumper and the crisp white shirt underneath. Harry’s breath catches in his throat at the sight. Draco’s chest is even paler than his arms, and alabaster smooth, save for a handful of tiny, hair-thin scars etched across his skin. Harry’s desire to lick each one competes with his need to acknowledge how they got there. “I--”

“I know. Stop talking and touch me,” Draco begs, which, Merlin, is so fucking _hot_ , Harry could wank to just that for days. Draco stills and brings Harry’s hand up to touch his chest.

Harry does as he’s told, sits up, leans back against the headboard, and allows his palm to skate across Draco’s skin, watching the way Draco reacts, the way he breathes, the way his eyes flutter closed. Draco hisses through his teeth when Harry’s thumb brushes his nipple. Harry fingers every angle and line of his chest, committing it to memory. His heart aches and twists sharply at the utter beauty of it, the way it somehow feels familiar and right, like he’s been away from this for too long.

In a daze, Harry brings both hands down to Draco’s waist and unzips his trousers, sees Draco nod frantically, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Draco’s pants and slides everything off, exposing Draco’s cock. Harry wraps his fingers around it immediately, needing to feel it. It’s hot and thick and Harry’s mouth waters. Draco moans and pants. He rocks into Harry’s fist, slow, then stops, grabs Harry’s wrist. He meets Harry’s eye, lifts Harry’s palm to his mouth and licks it until it’s slick, the places it back on himself. Harry’s pulse pounds in his ears and he’s sure the whole world can hear it. His fist tightens around Draco again.

“So good, so good,” Draco says softly.

Harry can’t stop watching him, transfixed, mouth dry and heart racing. It’s never been like this for him--the overwhelming desire to give someone everything, the way their pleasure dissolves into his, the competing need to finish _now_ and drag it out forever, the sensation of too much and not enough. He circles a thumb and two fingers around the tip of Draco’s cock, which makes Draco suddenly throw his head back and thrust harder and faster.

“I’m going to . . . .Fuck! Fuck-fuck-fuck- _yes_ , Stori--”

They both freeze.

Draco comes as his eyes fly open in horror.


	17. Chapter 17

 “Fuck, no. I’m sorry--” he gasps, pulling back. “I didn’t mean . . . oh gods, please Harry--”

Draco cannot believe this is happening. It doesn’t even make sense. He wasn’t even thinking of Astoria--not that Harry will ever believe that. He wouldn’t, if the situation were reversed.

“It’s fine,” Harry says, his voice cold. “It’s um . . . It’s . . .”

“No, don’t do that. You don’t have to be okay with that. I don’t know why I said it, I _swear_ ,” Draco pleads. “But we can talk about it.”

Harry still doesn’t move, although he’s taken his hands off him.

“Um, what was this to you, Draco?” Harry asks without meeting his eye, and that _hurts_. He’s sitting there with Draco’s come on his stomach and he won’t even fucking look at him.  “Was it just--I mean, I know we rushed into it but, for me . . .”

“Harry. Look at me, please.” Harry finally does, green eyes peeping out from his inky black fringe, searching for something Draco isn’t sure he can give. But he has to try.  “No one is more mortified at this than I am. I don’t even know what to say. I wish I could take it back.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“You didn’t! Were you even here, just now? It was all me.”

“You’re obviously not ready for this,” Harry says quietly, which fills Draco with inexplicable rage.

“What does that even _mean_?” he cries. “Ready for what? Ready to forget about her?”

“When you’re in bed with me, ideally, yeah,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth.

“I _did!”_ Draco roars. “You won’t believe me, I know, but I did tonight, here. I wanted _you_. Fuck! I’ve said your name more times than I can count, for weeks, whenever I’ve so much as brushed the head of my cock. I want you so bad I--I just wish it was easier to . . . to . . . fuck, I don’t know.” He buries his face in his hands and drags them down his cheeks. “I don’t fucking know. Nobody tells you how to fall in love with someone when your heart is still broken, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“What did you say?” Harry asks in a small voice.

“I said . . . shit.” He replays his own voice saying those terrifying words.

“Seriously. Draco. What did you just say?”

Draco pauses, then decides he’s fucked no matter what happens next, so he might as well be honest.

“I said . . . I’m falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to do it,” Draco fixes his eyes on Harry’s. “And I’m sorry.”

Harry pushes himself up. “I’m sorry, too,” he whispers. “I don’t know how to do this either, but I want to try.” He reaches for Draco’s hand. “And I’m sort of falling in love with you, too.”

Draco’s heart flips in his chest. He didn’t realise how much he needed to hear that, or say it. He never expected to again.

“Sort of?” he laughs quietly.

“More than sort of,” Harry corrects himself. “Definitely.”

“Harry . . . I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move on,” Draco says carefully, “Not completely. But I do want to move forward, with you. I want to build something together, even though it won’t be easy.”

“Me too,” Harry says. “And I doubt ‘easy’ was ever in the cards for us,” he adds with a half smile.

Draco smirks. “Fair point. But . . .the way you made me feel tonight . . . I don’t know how to say it without sounding strange.”

“Try?” Harry prods.

“Like I was . . . safe, and loved, and understood, and the way you touched me . . . It’s exactly the way she used to make me feel. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. But maybe that’s where it came from. Subconsciously,” he hastens to add.

“Yeah?” Harry asks shakily. “I made you feel that?”

“Yeah. Scares the fucking hell out of me.”

Harry reaches out to cup Draco’s jaw and kisses him lightly. “That makes two of us,” he chuckles against Draco’s cheek.

“You can stay tonight,” Draco finds himself staying. “I’d like you to. We can talk . . . or not.”

“Okay,” Harry says, his eyes shining.

“But let’s get you cleaned up first. I’m pretty sure I can remember your name in the shower.”

“You’d better,” Harry smirks.

 

***

 

They lay under the silky sheets of Draco’s bed, warm and damp and clean. Harry runs his hands up Draco’s arm and until he reaches his shoulder and pulls him closer, settling his head on Draco’s chest. The weight of it is safe and wonderful.  “Still okay to talk?” Harry asks hesitantly. “There is something I’ve been meaning to ask you. ”

“Of course,” Draco murmurs into his hair.

“Can I ask--why could Astoria see Thestrals?”

The question catches Draco by surprise. Of all the things to talk about after everything that’s just happened. . . but he expects Harry will be the sort of lover who doesn’t follow those unspoken rules. He expects he’ll love him all the more for it. He hasn’t thought about the answer to Harry’s question for some time, but the story comes back to him easily enough.

“It was a friend of hers from childhood,” he begins, taking his time to get the details right, twirling lazy circles on Harry’s back as he thinks. “A girl she met on holiday. They had summer homes on the same lake. The Greengrasses preferred Muggle destinations for their holidays, as they liked their privacy. Didn’t want to run into anyone they knew while away.”

“Pure-bloods are weird,” Harry interjects, his voice rumbling into Draco.

“Hush, you. As I was saying--Muggle holiday destination. Astoria and Danielle, her name was--they were very close, but had to keep their friendship secret, because the girl was Muggleborn. Astoria even hid it from Daphne at first. She had hoped that she and Danielle would go to Hogwarts together, since she was a witch at least, and they would be in the same year. But Danielle eventually told Astoria that she would never be well enough to attend Hogwarts. She had some sort of condition, something to do with her kidneys I think--she wouldn’t recover without a transplant. Do you know what that is?”

Harry nods and says nothing.

“Her parents couldn’t help her, as they didn’t have magical blood. Even if they were to donate--they could have done so without giving up their lives in this case--her body would have been sure to reject it. And they didn’t know any other wizarding families who could help. So Astoria--”

“--She wanted to do it, didn’t she?”

“Desperately.” Draco pauses, remembering the way Astoria looked when she told him the story. How sadness and anger and loss still contorted her face so many years later. “She told her parents about Danielle and begged them to let her help. They refused, furious about her keeping the friendship from them, and aghast at the idea of Astoria undergoing such an invasive procedure. She was beside herself, of course.”

“Gods, of course.” Harry’s arms tighten around Draco’s waist.

“Astoria kept in touch with Danielle’s parents by owl when the summer was over, hoping to hear good news, but it was not to be. Daphne took pity on her when she received the news that Danielle was close to end, and covered for Astoria when she went to see her. Danielle died with Astoria and her parents at her bedside. Stori had nightmares about it for months, but she couldn’t even tell her parents about them.”

“And then she could see Thestrals--but she couldn’t tell them that, either, could she?”

“Exactly. It was her secret for a long time, until after the war, when most people stopped asking who could see them and who couldn’t.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Something has shifted--Draco can feel it, but he can’t tell what. It almost feels like the first time he heard the story from Astoria. What can you say to something like that?

Finally, Harry clears his throat. “Draco, I’m--I don’t know if sorry is the right word. But it’s all I can think to say. I’m so sorry she went through that. That’s fucking terrible.” Is he shaking a little bit?

“Well, it had a silver lining for someone at least,” Draco says, trying not to sound like an eternally sad sod.

“What do you mean?” Harry tilts his chin to look up at him.

“Oh, just that Danielle was the reason Astoria was adamant about making her final wishes clear.”

“I’m not following.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s a bit difficult for me to talk about.” He takes a breath. “Astoria requested to be an organ donor after her death, because it’s so rare for wizards to do so. She wanted to save someone like Danielle, if possible.”

Harry’s whole body goes rigid against Draco. “She what?”

“I don’t like the sound of it myself, honestly,” Draco continues, trying to discern why Harry’s suddenly gone white as sheet. “Although I suppose I should get over it. That’s what she would say. Anyway, as a direct result of Astoria’s wishes, someone out there has a new heart.” He gulps down the pain. “Her heart.”

And it’s okay. He can say that and be okay. He can.

“What? What are you saying?” Harry’s breathing is shallow.

“Harry, what’s--are you all right?”

“Uhm. Uhm.” Harry twists away from him and sits up. His hands are shaking now. “D’you know who it was?” he asks, his voice high and tight. Something is very, very wrong.

“No. Why? What the fuck is going on, Harry?”

“When did she die?”

“Last year, I told--”

“The exact date! What is it?” Harry demands.

“October 12. Merlin, Harry, why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?” Draco tries to remain calm, reminds himself that Harry’s been through a lot in this life, and perhaps this is some sort of trigger for him. That would be understandable. “Hey, we don’t have to--”

“A letter! Did you get a letter?” he asks wildly.

“Yes,” Draco replies, baffled. “How did you know?”

“When? Where is it?”

“Fuck, Harry, calm down. You’re scaring me.”

“Join the club,” he says hoarsely. “This is . . . can I see it? The letter?”

Draco can only reach over to his night stand on the other side of the bed and hand it to Harry. He looks like a man possessed.

Harry rips it open and his face crumples. “Shit. No, no, no, no, shit. Draco, I’m so sorry.”

Draco watches Harry’s eyes water, sees the disbelief crawl across his features, but Draco cannot get his mind to put the pieces together. There’s something there but he’s too panicked to see it for what it is.

Harry holds up the letter. “This is me!” Harry cries. “I had a heart attack that night. I got a new heart. This is my letter.”

The bottom drops out of Draco’s chest and he feels the blood drain from his face. “A heart attack? No. That’s not possible.”

“Yes. And I don’t want to believe it either, but it’s right here in my handwriting. It’s right here. I wrote this!”

Draco shakes his head. He can’t stop shaking it.

“Look at me,” Harry demands, “and tell me this doesn’t change anything.”

Draco says nothing.

“You can’t, can you?”

Draco stares at Harry. The words won’t come.

“I have to go.”

Draco doesn’t stop him.

 


	18. Chapter 18

The fundraiser was a roaring success, as Harry knew it would be. Lee fills him in on the details in the morning, studiously avoiding asking Harry what happened that night. Somehow he must know it didn’t end well. He fixes Harry a strong black coffee and two eggs and tells him to take the day, but Harry insists on working. If he has to sit around, he’ll go mad.

A lot of the customers give him their congratulations. He accepts them, even though they aren’t his to have. Ron and and Hermione send an owl with a picture of a Thestral that Rosie scribbled in blue crayon. Andromeda wants to know when Teddy can visit the sanctuary again. No word from Draco, not that he expected otherwise.

And all the while, the stolen heart keeps beating traitorously against his ribs, reminding him of what Draco has lost, what he’ll never have. 

He needs to get out. Far away and for a long time. Returning to the DMLE is still out of the question, but perhaps a year abroad with Charlie in Romania or a stint helping Neville in the wilds of the Amazon would do it. He wonders if either of them would take him, and what arrangements are needed for International Portkeys. It’s not even noon.

_ “I’m falling in love with you.”  _ The words won’t leave him alone, even if they’re all wrong now. He hears them anytime there’s a lull.

The dinner rush is a welcome distraction. He’s never been a more efficient employee. The smile he has plastered on his face becomes a mask that leaves him numb and exhausted.

It’s after midnight. Lee’s closed up early for a Friday, claiming he still has some catching up to in the kitchen from yesterday and it’s not busy enough to stay open. 

“Go to bed, Potter. You shouldn’t be working sixteen hours straight.”

“Nah, m’fine,” he says roughly.

“Harry, come on, it’s not good for your heart--”

“Fuck you, all right?” Harry explodes. “You don’t know shit about my heart.”

Lee steps back and stares at him. “All right. I’m not your bloody keeper.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry bites out.

“But I am your boss, and I’m telling you to go home or get out, because as an employee, you aren’t allowed to be here after closing.”

“I live upstairs!” Harry cries, indignant.

“Yeah, but not down here,” Lee says calmly. “So get the fuck up, or get the fuck out.”

Harry stands his ground and waits to see if Lee means it.

“Harry--”

“Please, Lee.” Harry’s voice breaks. “I just want to  . . . I need to . . .”

Lee sighs as though he already regrets what he’s about to say. “Fine. Half an hour more. Wash the glasses above the bar again. You were sloppy this afternoon.”

Harry nods. 

“But I’ll Confund and Levitate you myself if it’s a minute longer, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright, thanks Lee.”

 

***

 

It’s been twenty-two minutes when there’s a rattling at the door.

Harry looks up to see Draco standing outside, holding something soft in one hand. He looks awful--gaunt and haggard and like he’s slept even less than Harry. He’s the most beautiful thing Harry’s ever seen.

Harry wordlessly unlocks the door and steps back. He isn’t optimistic about why Draco’s here, but his heart leaps anyway, because he’s close and they’re together.

Draco thrusts the object in his hand towards Harry.

“You left your shirt,” he says stiffly.

“Oh,” Harry’s heart plummets. “Thanks.”

Time stands still.

“I was tempted to keep it,” Draco says, matter-of-fact. “I like that it smells like you.”

“Oh,” Harry says again, and swallows, not daring to hope.

“But then I thought--why the fuck would I do that?” Draco continues, taking a step closer to Harry, speaking softer. “I have enough artefacts in my home from someone I’ve loved. Things are a poor substitute for a person. So . . . so inadequate. Especially when the person is still walking around in the world, and you still love them.”

Harry can hardly breathe. “But, doesn’t it matter that--”

“Of course it matters, Harry. It matters in a way I can hardly--” he reaches up to put his hand on Harry’s chest, right over the place where his heart skips and thuds. Draco looks into Harry’s eyes, a desperate question there, unmistakable. Harry understands. 

“Go on,” he says softly. “It won’t break.”

Draco’s breath hitches as he crowds into Harry’s chest and presses his ear to his heart, wrapping his arms around Harry, keening and sobbing as both of them sink to their knees.

Harry rubs his back and strokes his hair. “It’s all right, love. It’s all right,” he murmurs, his own voice cracking, speaking to himself as much as he is to Draco.

It’s all right. 

It’s terrible and wonderful and beautiful and frightening. 

And it’s all right. 

 


	19. Epilogue

Sunlight stretches in through the open window of their room in Paris, warming Harry’s bare back as he sleeps. A cool breeze drifting in tousles his hair, but still he snores on, blissfully unaware that it’s half ten and their portkey to London is in twenty minutes. 

If only Draco could work up enough energy to be properly annoyed about it. Instead, he wraps his arms around Harry and lets his head rest awkwardly on his shoulder blade, letting his cheek soak up the warmth, closing his eyes as he inhales the scent of Harry’s skin. He allows himself to entertain the idea of forgetting London altogether.

They can’t, of course, since it’s the grand opening, and part of Draco is happy to go. The other part of him would be just fine staying here and reading about it later. He’s used to wanting conflicting things by now. Wanting Astoria’s dream to come to fruition for her sake is not the same as chasing his own dreams. Harry’s helped him see that. They’ve both been caught up in the expectations of others for far too long.    

They’ve spent the better part of this year travelling. (Cupcake didn’t so much as whimper when Draco handed her off to Blaise.) After finalising a patent for his development serum, Draco has been pitching to investors all over the world, with Harry at his side. The implications of such a serum--for teaching, law enforcement, medicine, therapy, to name a few--are significant, as Harry had suggested.  

Harry is still working on finding a vocation for himself, but he’s in no rush. He’s wanted to travel as well, for a long time, but never gave himself permission before. For now, his life is full. He loves working with Draco and encouraging him to make the most of whatever hotel room they find themselves in.

Draco sighs and nudges Harry in the hip with the heel of his hand. No response. “Harry,” he breathes, trailing a finger down Harry’s spine, finally causing him to stir. Draco slides onto the pillow so they face each other and brushes Harry’s hair out of his eyes before kissing him, slow and languid. 

“Mmm,” Harry moans, eyes still closed.

“Up,” says Draco, and nips his earlobe. 

“It is,” Harry smirks sleepily. 

“Yes, well, unless your cock is coming to London with me and leaving you here, that’s not good enough. You know we leave in fifteen, right?”

Harry bolts up.

“What! Fuck! Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I did.”

“We have to pack!”

“I did.”

“Do we have--”

“We have everything, Harry. Yes, even the toys with the batterbies you picked up for the Weasley-Grangers.”

Harry’s face splits into a fond grin. “I love you.”

Draco pauses for just a moment, reining in his first inclination to brush it off or respond with a playful barb. “I love you, too.”

“I know.”

“You don’t deserve me, though.”

“We deserve each other. Or that’s what Lee says."

“Hmm,” says Draco, shifting to rest on his elbow. “How is Lee, anyway?”

“You mean since Gerard moved in? I would guess properly shagged and drinking the best coffee of his life. I suppose we’ll find out.”

 

***

 

The Greengrass Thestral Sanctuary is a sight to behold: quadruple its original size, filled with lush greenery, cool ponds and, less beautiful but still necessary, reservoirs of properly preserved and sterilised meat.  

It’s more than Astoria could have hoped for, and it’s enabled Draco to let her go just that little bit more, knowing what it would have meant to her to finally have it complete.

Harry and Draco take their time wandering through it with Teddy before the doors officially open to the public.

“Hey, look who it is,” Harry says softly, tipping his chin to the left. 

“Who?” asks Teddy, still a little put out he can’t see the Thestrals. He’s talked non-stop about volunteering with PRAMB during his summers, so even though he can’t see them, he knows everything about them. 

“Brutus!” Draco says with a grin. “He’s looking well.”

Brutus ambles over and nudges all three of them before whinnying into Harry’s chest--something that still makes him slightly uneasy, if Draco reads his expression right. 

“Whoa there, old boy,” Harry says, tentatively reaching up to the rough scales on Brutus’s neck. “Don’t worry,” he places a hand on his own chest. “It’s still there, and I’m taking good care of it.” He shoots Draco a knowing glance.

“We both are,” Draco agrees, then lifts his head to see the clear blue sky through the glass above them.

_ Thank you, Stori.  _

They can’t tarry too long. Teddy wants to show them where the new foals are, and they have plans for lunch at the pub.

“Come on!” Teddy says insistently. “Time to move on.”

“All right, ready there, Harry?”

He takes Draco’s hand. “Ready when you are.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos mean the world to me, and please do read the other works in this fest. They're amazing!
> 
> ***
> 
> This work is part of "Lights, Camera, Drarry" (LCDrarry), a film-, TV- and theatre-inspired Drarry fest.  
>  Creations are posted anonymously during the posting period. The creators will be revealed on [tumblr](http://lcdrarry.tumblr.com) and [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/LCDrarry2019/works) on 15 June.


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